


we will make love with our teeth (or not at all)

by ultraviolence



Series: i have immortal longings in me (faeverse) [2]
Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fae, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Blindfolds, Blow Jobs, Body Worship, Cock Rings, Collars, Dubious Consent, Forced Orgasm, Forced Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Glove Kink, Hate Sex, Intrigue and Porn, Kissing, Light Bondage, Love Confessions, M/M, Making Out, Masturbation, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pet Names, Polyamory, Power Dynamics, Voyeurism, everyone is banging everyone, love dodecahedron
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2017-10-28
Packaged: 2019-01-09 10:25:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 28,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12274503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultraviolence/pseuds/ultraviolence
Summary: Krennic, ambitious and determined, a rising star in the Summer Court, is confident that his proposition could benefit both him and the King of the Unseelie. A deal was made and landed him in a whole load of hot water and in an entirely unwanted relationship. Stuck in something that was more than he bargained for with the man he hated the most in the entire world, he bides his time, trying to find a way out of it. When Thrawn comes along, hoping to secure an alliance with Tarkin's Court, he sees his chance.Also known as: the one where everyone has at least ten different hidden agendas and had lots of sex. AU.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my idea of a Halloween fic: expansion of my existing faeverse and porn. I'm just going to say this from the get-go: this AU is just an excuse to write loads of dicking (with added supernatural shit and some political intrigue). 
> 
> I'll try to update every other weekend during October. If you read my other WIP Tarkrennic fic (Pandora), not to worry, I haven't forgotten that one too.
> 
> Enjoy!

Evenings in the colder part of Faerie was long and dark, the shadows monstrous with sharp teeth, snapping on unwary passersby. The sunsets were magnificent, of course—the sky bloody and brilliant, crimson with a hint of magenta, eventually fading into something dark and beautiful and twisted, much like the creatures who inhabited this part of the fae lands. The leaves change colour erratically—sometimes for a whole week, sometimes for a whole century—before withering away, leaving the trees in their bare skeletons, elongated shadows dangerous and unholy after sundown.

Orson Krennic had been here before, of course, a couple of times, mostly on Court business, very rarely on something resembling personal affair. The reigning King of Winter was a hard, fearsome man, that much is known all throughout Faerie, but he held a specific and rare brand of dislike towards Krennic, even more so now that he is officially the right hand of his Summer counterpart. Their intense dislike was mutual, and neither of them was very keen on hiding this shared feeling, although the King of Winter is considerably more restrained in his displays of hatred. 

The palace was a cold and austere place, more of a mansion than a palace proper, a place of long nights and dark corridors, forbidden knowledge nestling in the nooks and crannies and in the pages of the sleeping tomes and books in its library. The very building itself was an architecture of secret, a ziggurat for chaos masquerading as order, sinister tricks and hidden passageways hiding in every turn. It was, overall, a paradox: the Unseelie were the embodiments of chaos in its various form, yet their ruler was plainly fanatic about keeping the order, and the ruler is very much an extension of the place he ruled. Krennic wasn’t all that fond of the dark, labyrinthine hallways of the place, preferring instead the well-lit corridors and pathways in the lands of summer, but he had to admit that something about the austerity and the relative minimalism of the place appeals to him. 

Not that he was keen on staying here.

He had secured a private audience with the King, which was not, in any case, an easy task. Even barring the King’s hatred towards him (it might have something to do with a botched assassination attempt a decade or so back, or it might have been a cloak that Krennic had once worn during a state dinner, he could never be sure about the exact cause, although to be fair he probably started it), he wouldn’t exactly let anyone just waltz in and see him—he kept a certain distance from his subjects and even more so from his sycophantic Court—and no one knows exactly what goes on in the King’s mind. Some of Krennic’s own people whispered that he was quite mad, but of course, that wasn’t something that they ever said in the presence of their Unseelie cousins. The King might have been a lot of things, but one thing for certain is that he was both feared and loved equally.

Fear, though, was synonymous with him. 

The rumours only get even wilder from there, even by fae standards—even by _Unseelie_ standards—although Krennic was certain that at least half of it was planted by the King himself. After all, that’s what he did in his own Court. All thoughts of dark rumours aside, Krennic was indeed successful in getting a private audience with the King, and, in that case, he was probably even madder than the supposedly mad king. But Krennic had something in mind, something that would hopefully capture the King’s attention.

The study he entered was well-lit, resembling something a human might have occupied—a carved wooden desk with books and parchments piled up on it, a high-backed chair, and a fireplace in the corner, flames flickering inside it and tiny orange sparks danced their fiery dance, an ephemeral sight. Everything in it was designed to evoke a feeling of familiarity—a _familiar_ authority—and cool pragmatism, but there was something dead about it, something wrong and twisted and cold. A permanent gloom seemed to hang over the study despite the lights and the faint glow of the fire. 

And the occupant—well, he was sitting in the chair, his cold blue eyes already fixed on Krennic the moment he stepped inside the room. All fae are, by nature, a force of nature, but there was something deeply predatory about Tarkin, something...cold. A gaunt and angular man who seemed to be in his forties with silvering red hair, he was the personification of Winter. The clean, sharp lines of his clothes spoke volumes about his character, just like the study and the rest of the palace.

“I must say,” Tarkin started as Krennic approached him slowly, gaze following his every movement, “this is quite a surprise. To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

The venom buried underneath his words didn’t escape Krennic’s notice. He felt the urge to counter it with something equally venomous, but this time he managed to keep himself in check. He was here for a reason. He covered up his rising anger with a perfunctory smile, stopping just a little distance away from Tarkin’s desk. “Oh, it’s not the usual business, if that’s what you mean,” he said with practised ease, although it takes more than a little effort to control himself when he’s dealing with Tarkin. 

“Then is this a _social call_?” Tarkin said, his emphasis not lost on Krennic, and neither does the ghost of an enigmatic smile that briefly haunted the man’s grim face. 

Krennic took his time, pretending to let his gaze flitted lazily around the study, as if he was an outsider observing them for the first time, before letting it settle back down on the other man. There was a cool, steady intensity to Tarkin’s gaze—an beastly, primal sort of intelligence—that would intimidate a lesser man or anyone of a lower station, but Krennic wasn’t the sort to be easily deterred, and the intimacy of their mutual dislike brought with it a certain kind of disarmament. They had been through this a thousand times before. The difference now is that Krennic had an important case to make, and he wanted to make sure that Tarkin would listen.

“No, I’m afraid that’s not the case either, Your Majesty,” he said, stifling his own eagerness. The other man had risen to take the bait. “I have...something else I would like to discuss with you.”

“So in less purple prose and with less grovelling, you need me, Krennic,” Tarkin shot back, and Krennic smiled. Despite the venom and the bad blood between them, his directness is sometimes quite refreshing. “It’s a shame. You know, your visits have always left such a trail of would-be traitors and assassins behind you, for some reason.”

“I have nothing to do with them, if that’s what you mean,” Krennic said, suppressing the urge once more to counter him with something biting. “In fact, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I thought my visits brought a splash of colour and life to your otherwise drab court, not hidden traitors and assassins.”

“Yes, you do,” Tarkin replied dryly, looking at him. “Although it’s quite the opposite, actually. Your brazenness has never ceased to surprise me. Perhaps it is your human blood.”

Krennic tried to let the slight slide for once, feeling his blood boil at the mere mention of his parentage. “Might I remind you that I am a member of the Seelie Court proper now, and that the Queen trusted me personally?” he bit out, feeling the heat rise. “I’m not going to stand here and be insulted for my...past.”

Something like amusement crossed Tarkin’s expression. He leaned back on his seat, steepled his fingers together. “As a matter of fact, I do not need to be reminded of that, boy. I follow the comings-and-goings of your Court. And I do not think I need to remind you of your despicable habit with humans,” his lips curled up, briefly, into a darkly amused smile, and Krennic wanted nothing more but to wipe that smile from his face. “Sit down, if you will, I don’t care either way. You need me for something. Make your case or leave, I have no more time for pleasantries.”

That was no less than he expected from Tarkin, but something about it—perhaps the profound carelessness of it, the fact that he truly doesn’t care about Krennic, not the inherent callousness of his words (he was used to callousness, it’s apathy that he doesn’t know how to deal with)--crawls under his skin and refused to leave. That was the way it was with Tarkin. Krennic bit his tongue, paced for a bit. The man truly knows how to get under his skin.

“I have...something that might be of interest to you,” Krennic began, choosing his words carefully.

“Very little you have is of interest to me,” Tarkin told him, dryly, but something in his manner told Krennic otherwise. It alleviated his rising anger, a little. “But continue.”

“Let’s just say that it’s going to solve some of your problems,” Krennic continued, smiling slightly even if he felt like starting a fight. Usually, he has very little patience with Tarkin, but he hated that the man was right, for once—he did need him. “You mentioned traitors and assassins earlier.”

“The usual stock,” Tarkin dismissed lightly with a wave of his hand. “Although of course, someone like you would consider it a grave threat, Krennic.”

“It was just an example,” Krennic bit out, trying very very hard to hide the fact that his blood has boiled a little above room temperature, although Tarkin’s standard room temperature is very near to freezing in his opinion, much like the man himself. “What I’m trying to say is, I might know one or two things about these people.”

“I know everything about them, and yet it was preferable to let them scheme foolishly so that I might teach them a thing or two about fear and obedience when they reveal themselves,” Tarkin retorted, reaching for a book. “Anything else, boy? Or did you come all the way here to tell me what I’ve already know?”

“I just happen to know something about a particular someone you’re after,” Krennic said, putting on an equally disinterested front. “You can make snide remarks about my ‘despicable habit’ with humans all you want, but come to the right person with the right lever, and they will tell you the right secret.”

He saw it—an unmistakable gleam in Tarkin’s eyes when he heard the last word. He had found the right button, finally. “You have to be more specific about that, Krennic. I know your particular techniques and your preferred method of persuasion, and especially what you insinuate when you say ‘the right lever’, but I do not intend to be...entangled in your petty schemes. You are leading me on,”

“I want to propose a deal,” Krennic told him, abruptly. One can only go so far with diplomacy and tact with Tarkin. “I will tell you more, Tarkin, but only if you agree to my terms and conditions.”

“A hasty move,” Tarkin said, leaning forward slightly, but there was no mistaking the gleam in his eyes. “But a bold one. Although I have to flat out refuse. Tell me more, and then I will decide whether or not it would be worth it to go into business with you.”

Krennic took a step back, keeping his expression carefully neutral. “In that case, the deal’s off the table.”

There was a brief silence, and the other man shifted slightly in his seat but kept his gaze fixed on Krennic. “What’s in it for you, boy?” he asked, and Krennic was thrown off-balance. He definitely wasn’t expecting that. “Don’t pretend there isn’t anything in it for you. You need me, and there is something in all of this for you, too. Charity doesn’t suit you nor someone of your _ambition_ ,” he added, with a slightly sardonic smile. Krennic was at least impressed by his sharpness. Even if he would never admit it, there was a good reason that this man managed to claw his way to the top of his Court, and has managed to stay there ever since. 

“Your support will gain me more power,” he blurted out before he could so much as try to control himself, and he cursed himself mentally. Direct questions have never done any of their kind good—the perks of not being able to lie—and it was the very reason why they evade and hide behind carefully constructed half-truths and ambiguous words. “But in return, we could strengthen the alliance of our Courts,” he quickly added, covered it with a smile. “And I could vouchsafe your interests, of course.”

“Ambitious. And of course, foolish as you are,” Tarkin said, and Krennic felt heat rising into his cheeks. They had done this a thousand times before, but that doesn’t make it any easier to weather through Tarkin’s barbs. The man has a tongue sharper than any iron knife. “Not to mention that the last part is very much debatable. I know your reputation, Krennic. And yet—” Tarkin looked at him sharply, and Krennic knows that the man was running eldritch calculations in his head, schemes and plans that he very much wanted to know about. Yet much like the shadowy corridors of his palace, Tarkin’s mind—and by extension, his feelings—are very much a closed book. “—I will consider this. No, in fact, I will accept the deal, but with one condition.”

“What is it?” Krennic asked, feeling like he had no choice but to take the bait. Tarkin smiled slightly, and he felt the temperature in the room dips down a little.

“You will do what I ask you to if you fail. My terms and conditions. But if you should succeed, you’ll have...my support. And perhaps more.”

“A deal inside a deal?” Krennic expressed, once more thrown off-balance. “I need a lot more to go from than just vague generalities, Your Majesty.”

“I will only say that you will then understand the true meaning of obedience,” Tarkin said, leaning back in his seat again, slightly relaxing visibly. “What is it, then? Do you accept or not?”

Krennic felt very tempted to dither, to demur and stall, but at the same time...he was intrigued. Besides, he was confident in what he knows, and that he will succeed. He _must_ succeed. “Yes, I accept. But you must give me your word that you will give me what you promised me, should I succeed. And I _will_ succeed.”

“You have my word,” Tarkin said, all too quickly, and Krennic almost regretted this. But he steeled himself. “Do I have yours?”

“Yes, you have my word.”

“Then we have a deal,” Tarkin replied, satisfaction slipping into his voice. “Fulfill your part of the bargain, Krennic, and tell me more about what you know and what you intend to do. I certainly hope that I did not misplace my faith, although it certainly seemed like it,” he paused momentarily, and Krennic could sense the hidden undercurrents of emotion—just there underneath the surface, but he can’t quite reach it, although Krennic was sure that he was hiding something. “Ah, but where are my manners? I should invite you to dinner. You have not received my hospitality,” he said, the interest suddenly lighting up his cold eyes, as lethal as an avalanche. “Only then could we put our... _mutual suspicions_ to rest, so to speak, at least for the time being, and discuss more on what we have agreed upon together.”

It was another sudden move from Tarkin’s part, of course, and Krennic did not trust it, not for a second. Invitations to dinner are, in general, always rife with undercurrents of threat, and especially when it comes from a notable enemy. They might have a deal now, but that doesn’t change the fact that they still hated each other. 

“I seem to recall that you found my company frivolous and a waste of time, Your Majesty,” Krennic told him, dryly. “So does half of my Court, if not my kind in general.” 

“Yes, but in light of our deal, I am...willing to put aside old prejudices and endure your company for a few hours.”

Cunning old snake, Krennic thought, and nearly laughed, but managed to gather himself. “Only for a _few_ hours? I thought I was worth more than that.”

“Watch yourself, boy,” Tarkin warned, and there was the prelude of a hidden threat in his voice, the unsheathing of claws, but he looked a little amused nevertheless. “You always put too much value in yourself and your own abilities. Your favoured method of persuasion won’t work on me,” his voice, although it doesn’t lose its edge, softened fractionally. “At least, not tonight.”

That was interesting, but once more, Krennic feigned disinterest. “Then I accept your invitation to dinner and your offer of hospitality.”

“Good,” Tarkin smiled, a little wider than before, elusive and enigmatic. Krennic had the vague feeling of a trap, closing fast, but he did not yet know what it was, although he was aware of it. “I look forward to it.”

* * *

The seasons had changed, Tarkin was aware of it, in the human world.

Nothing had changed in the vista shown by the window in his study, however. Well, specifically, nothing in the sense that there was nothing out of the ordinary there. Tonight, the trees are down to their bare skeletons (the study was specifically arranged to overlook the forest behind the mansion, the forest that had made and shaped him, just as it had made and shaped his family before him) and tiny snowflakes fell from the picturesque, yet faint grey sky, a herald for far larger things to come, while tiny creatures flitted around through the desiccated trees every now and then, and larger, mysterious shadows darted just outside the periphery, especially as the hour grows darker, and the evening larger. Yesterday evening, the leaves were ghastly red and haunting orange, the air cool with a promise of winter in the air, while the sky looms above it all, endless and terrifying, in every sense the perfect late October day, by human standards. Everything was constantly changing yet nothing changed at the same time in Faerie.

Time passed differently here, too.

He could sense his presence before the other man entered the room, a blot in the familiar chaotic stillness of his palace, a distraction, a blur of heat and energy. All high-ranking fae has a distinctive presence, a way of announcing that they were there before they arrive, a universal signature, and Krennic’s presence reminded Tarkin of an unpleasantly hot summer evening, seemingly unending and tirelessly untiring, the heat smouldering and merciless and everywhere. 

It was anathema to him and gets under his skin like no other fae had. The fact that he had been so bold to propose a deal with him grates on his nerves even more. But of course, Tarkin sees an opportunity, and he had always been one step ahead of his opponents. Krennic was a fool, a young upstart who would soon have to deal with the consequences of making a bad political--and personal--decision. 

He smiled slightly when the door opens, his back still turned, watching the austere landscape through the window. He knows that it would come to this.

“You- you’ve arranged for this—” the newly-arrived man sputtered, not even waiting for the door to fully close behind him. Tarkin had predicted that, too. He turned around only slightly, sparing him the briefest and coldest of glances. Krennic was visibly fuming, his white cloak trailing behind him. He had a penchant for theatrics—slightly even more so than his Seelie cohorts, much to Tarkin’s chagrin—and it shows. “You _know_ this is going to happen!”

Tarkin took his time, not bothered at all by his microscopic outburst, paid the winter landscape one last look before he fully turned around, meeting the other man’s gaze. There was fury there in the blue, but there was also shame and disappointment and betrayal. Tarkin focused on the latter.

“I do not have omniscience, if that is what you implied, Krennic,” Tarkin told him, smiling amusedly. His very existence might have gotten under his skin, but getting a rise out of Krennic is very much an art form of its own at this point. And it was so terribly _easy_. “Despite what the rumours said. I’ve recognised that you might have listened to and relied on them a little too much.”

The snide implication didn’t go unnoticed, and Krennic stomped his way to him—graceless, artless, and having no style at all, Tarkin thought, while eyeing him with obvious distaste—all five foot eleven of him, heat and anger and smothering fiery energy, stopping close enough until their chests nearly touch, as he leaned forward and hissed angrily. 

“You betrayed me,” he hissed, and Tarkin could hear the frustration in his voice, could almost touch it. He liked the taste of it. “You’ve arranged for this to happen, haven’t you? So I’d fall into your condition of the deal—”

“What happened was your own mistake, boy,” Tarkin replied, coldly. “I did tell you that you put too much value in yourself and in your own mediocre at best abilities. I hope you are not foolish enough to reveal my hand in this.”

“Of course,” he snarled, jabbing a finger to Tarkin’s chest. “That’s all you cared about, isn’t it? You don’t care about the deal at all, or our mutual _interest_ —”

“Quiet,” Tarkin barked, and Krennic flinched. “You failed. I’ve fulfilled my end of the bargain, kept my word, and you failed, Krennic. Now you have to fulfil your part. Remember what you’ve agreed to, in the case of failure.”

The other man took a step back, suddenly defensive, paling only slightly. “I remembered. But if you’d only give me a second chance—”

“There are no second chances,” Tarkin stated, noting the fear in Krennic’s eyes. He might have been all fire and boldness when he proposed the deal, and he had somehow deluded himself that he was Tarkin’s worthy rival, but there was none of it now. He only saw a frightened, cornered animal. And his trap was just around the corner. “And a deal is a deal. Or have you forgotten about that too, boy?”

“No,” Krennic bit out, his fire returning, even if only momentarily. “But—”

“Not another word,” Tarkin stopped him, holding up a finger, reproachful. He knows that given the chance, Krennic would try prodding for loopholes—their entire kind’s tragic flaw—and he would not have that. “You are going to fulfil your part of the bargain, despite your evasions, Krennic. You know that you can’t renege. There is no way out of this.”

He watched the other blanch again. It was knowledge as intimate as a secret nestling between their ribs, as primordial as the seasons and their role in it: every deal made and agreed on was sacred and magically binding. As creatures weaned by magic, they could not break the rules imposed by it. Besides, they do have a responsibility—no matter how inconvenient—to keep their word, from one Court to another. 

There was simply no way around it—at least, no easy way—even for one as annoyingly resourceful as Krennic (although Tarkin would never, ever admit it, of course). He had to accede.

“Alright,” Krennic finally said, breaking the silence. His voice was controlled, tight, and Tarkin could still hear the anger and the frustration underscoring it. “I will fulfill my part of the bargain. You said I have to do what you told me to if I failed. What is it that you wanted me to do?”

Tarkin smiled, slightly, looking down at him. “There. It wasn’t so hard, was it?” Krennic glowered in return, the fires of his anger always smouldered underneath his skin, hotter than the weak embers in his fireplace, and for a moment Tarkin allowed himself to indulge in the thought of _touching_ those fires, briefly wondering also if Krennic’s searing hot hatred of him extends to other things. He held his gaze for a moment, watching the interplay of complex emotions in Krennic’s blue eyes (summer sky in high noon, as opposed to his own lighter, frostier shade), anger turning to hatred and eventually puzzlement. 

“Are you going to make me wait forever, or are you going to tell me?” Krennic eventually spits out, stomping his foot rather impatiently.

“Impatient for your _punishment_ , aren’t you?” Tarkin said, letting his words sink in for a moment. Then he touched his chin, a brief, delicate gesture—although it has the impact and power of an avalanche on the other man—quiet yet forceful, the intensity if it forcing Krennic to direct all of his attention to him, and briefly forgotten his words. “Open the velvet box on my desk. Put on what’s inside it. Don’t dither, and certainly don’t complain. I have to warn you, though—“ he smiles, again only slightly, this time with dry humour and a touch of irony, “—it might burn your fingers a little.”

Krennic’s reaction was just as Tarkin had predicted: he attempted to stall after his bid on finding and exploiting a loophole had failed. “Have you some new torture device for me, Tarkin? I found that amusing, but as I recall we were talking about our deal, and what _you_ wanted me to do.”

It was almost too easy, too natural, to condescend. Tarkin left his side as he spoke, seated himself in the high-backed chair behind his desk. He could feel Krennic’s gaze on him—burning with the usual petty hatred, but this time with a small amount of curiosity underneath it—and he met it, coolly. “ _I_ seem to recall that you wanted to get out of your own word hardly a moment ago, Krennic. How quickly that seemed to change. I will not repeat my order again: open the box and put the thing on. It cannot be _that_ complicated, even for one whose lineage has been polluted by human blood.”

“You _bastard_ ,” the other man swore under his breath, although it was intentionally loud enough for Tarkin to hear. He settled back on his seat, leaning back and watched Krennic. He seemed about to say something more—swore at him some more, perhaps—and Tarkin watched closely, but he stopped and bit his tongue. “I swear I will make you regret this someday.”

There was a hint of a snarl in his words, but if anything, Tarkin felt satisfied, in control. Everything was going exactly as planned, including how Krennic was reacting to all of this, and the snare…well, the bird is exactly one wingbeat away from being snared. Krennic swallowed and shot him a fleeting, unreadable look, then made his way towards Tarkin’s desk, footsteps brisk and confident. Perhaps he was hoping some secret foolish hope that this was all just a joke, or that he could somehow charm or bully his way out of this, Tarkin thought. Krennic reached for the box—he had set it on the edge of his desk, in the empty middle—opened it, and, just as Tarkin had pictured, he paled, stealing a glance at him after his initial brush with the device inside the box.

“What’s wrong, boy?” the King asked, in a slightly mocking tone. “Are you afraid to face the consequences of your botched, foolish scheme? Your failure to both of us and our Courts? _You_ , most of all?”

Something flickered in the younger fae’s expression, too fast for Tarkin to catch, but he could already identify it: a flash of defiance. He rested his hand on his lap, palm facing his thigh, but kept the other on the desk, resting casually on top of it. Of all Krennic’s reactions and shows of temper, defiance is quite probably the one he found to be the most fascinating.

And he _did_ like a challenge.

Krennic extends a hand and took the device out of the box, only hissing slightly when it was as Tarkin told him—burns his fingers, although a very light burn at that, after all, Tarkin did not want to cripple him permanently—but held it out for a moment, looked at Tarkin in askance. “Do you really—“

“No questions, boy,” Tarkin barked, imperious, and Krennic had no choice but to listen to him. “Put it on, we’ve dithered too much already.”

For a moment, he could not only see but _feel_ the pure hatred that radiated from Krennic like heat, not only evident in his facial expression and his eyes most of all, but from every inch of him. Like his magic and presence, it was like a poisonous vapour, or a thick smoke, radiating out from him, and Tarkin savoured every moment of it. It makes his triumph over him all the sweeter.

Then Krennic slipped it on, the device fitting perfectly around his throat. The smoke is still there, but…fainter. His presence, too, dulled, although only slightly, muted somewhat, as if it was music, and someone had turned down the volume. Tarkin suppressed the urge to smile, triumphantly.

“This is—“ Krennic started, and once more there was a brief whirlwind of emotions in his face, fear and anxiety and anger and disgust. But when he met Tarkin’s gaze, his eyes were two burning skies of pure loathing. “There’s iron in this. You have really gone mad, haven’t you? Absolutely fucking _mad_. I should have never gone to you with my proposal,” he fumed.

“I did say you were foolish,” Tarkin said, amused, studying him. “You did not listen to me. Now you have to choice but to do exactly that. In fact, should you choose to disobey me willfully—or should I perceive that in some respect you were disobeying me willfully—the collar will deliver an appropriate amount of pain. You should note that you would not be able to take it off, it would stay until a certain condition has been fulfilled, and I am the only one who can terminate the deal early, should I choose, in which case, I would take it off. Do _not_ think of destroying it, either—it suppresses a large amount of your magic, and it was bound together with magic that does not fully belong to our folk, and therefore it is incredibly strong.” He paused, briefly, noting the expression of barely suppressed rage on Krennic’s face. “In another word, Krennic, you are now my property.”

“No, I’m _not_ ,” he snarled, his denial vehement and zealous, and Tarkin wanted to laugh, coldly, in his face. The boy _needed_ his denial—it was just as well. As Tarkin had told him when Krennic proposed the deal to him, he will teach him the meaning of obedience. Whatever it takes. “What’s the condition?”

“I was getting to that,” Tarkin told him, only the slightest bit reproachful. “Patience, boy. Let’s say that if you could—and assuming _you_ could, of course—outsmart me, and therefore earn your freedom, since your foolishness is what landed you here in the first place, then the terms of our deal will be fulfilled and completed. But only then.” 

“You _didn’t_ get to hand me my freedom, Tarkin,” Krennic hissed, furious, the levers and gears in his mind clearly working just as furiously. Still, it was useless. The trap has snapped shut. “I’m not yours, no matter what you tell yourself and what your little device is supposed to do.”

He could sense it before it happened, the snap and the hiss of magic, followed by Krennic’s own hiss of pain. “You will get used to it in time, I’m sure,” Tarkin said, almost lazily. He rested an arm on the armrest, tilting his head to get a better look at the other man. “I suggest you stop resisting, although that is part of the challenge, don’t you think, pet? Now,” he added, his gaze suddenly predatory and wolfish, “remove all of your clothes. I wanted to examine my new plaything. Don’t even think of disobeying, my dear boy.”

It was apparent that Krennic had something to say about that too, since he had already opened his mouth to protest, but he bit his tongue and looked at him furiously instead. 

“Yes, sire,” he said, hesitant at first, although he quickly managed to disguise it, fingers already moving to undo his cloak. There was no more incident nor noise from the younger fae as he stripped off his clothes, unbuttoning clasps and undoing buckles, elaborately dressed as he was, as befitting his status, and Tarkin watched him intently, knowing that he could feel his gaze. Krennic left his clothes a puddle on the floor, and stepped around it unselfconsciously, a hint of disgust making its way to his expression, but which he quickly suppressed and disguised as something approaching boredom. Clearly, this was routine for him, almost, although Tarkin could sense his discomfort, the way it slithers underneath his skin and oozes out from his pores.

He let his gaze pry him open like a secret. The collar suits Krennic, an unobtrusive and yet elegant piece of device, silver like the moon, or a winter’s night. It perched on his throat perilously, the only thing left on his person after he had taken off all of his clothes, and he felt the inevitable tightening in his trousers. His body was how Tarkin had pictured it to be: lean, and yet not angular like his own, with a sufficient amount of muscle, the flat of his stomach giving way to narrow hips, his legs long and strong and fairly muscular. His cock was still flaccid—covered by a thatch of coarse brownish hair—but it won’t be for long. He let his gaze go back up to Krennic’s face again—attractive, in the lethally charming way that all Seelie fae seemed to be, a weapon in disguise rather than a tool for benevolence, although there was something notably distinctive about him, although, of course, Tarkin would never admit it openly. 

“So,” Krennic said, almost airily if not for the edge in his voice. “Do you like what you see, Your Majesty? Should we move on?”

Another snap and a hiss, an ooze of magic, and Krennic looked at him, obviously annoyed, although there are traces of pain in the lines of his face. “Get over here and get on your knees, boy,” Tarkin ordered, gesturing at the space beside his legs, behind the desk. “Do it.”

Krennic looked beyond annoyed, beyond hassled, beyond even hatred, if even such a thing was possible, but the collar shocks him again, and he made his way to Tarkin’s side, slowly.

“Might I _remind_ you—“ he spat out, glancing at the space near Tarkin’s legs and blatantly refusing to go down on his knees. “—that I’m not some common faeling? I’m a Lord of the Summer Court and right hand of the Queen, third in command—“

“Yes, yes, I know,” Tarkin waved him off, giving him a stern look. “A full reminder of your social standing is unnecessary, Krennic. I know who you are. And of course, you are too proud to kneel, aren’t you? Just like all of your Seelie brethren.” he gave him his trademark small, dry smile, as Krennic was forced to go down on his knees after the collar delivered another jolt of pain on his person. Tarkin touched his chin again, this time tilting it up and forcing the other man to look at him. In Krennic’s bright eyes were the familiar twin forces of fury and hatred, but there was open defiance there, too, and something else, something harder to name. Perhaps intrigue, or perhaps it was something else. “I also heard that your kind is particularly well-trained in the art of pleasure. You will sufficiently warm my bed tonight, I’m sure.”

A flush of colour crept up to Krennic’s cheeks, and his struggle to contain himself is very much apparent. He tried to shake off Tarkin’s hand on his chin, but Tarkin didn’t let him go. The King let one of his boot-clad legs touched the other’s thigh, caressing it lightly.

“I’m not some common human whore,” Krennic hissed, angrily, cheeks flushing even more, evidently hated the fact that he enjoyed—in some capacity—the way Tarkin teased him with his foot. It stoked Tarkin’s amusement. “You can’t just treat me like this.”

“You are right, pup,” Tarkin said, and confusion flickered in Krennic’s expression for a brief instant. “You are not. You’re my consort. Tonight will be our first night together.”

“I’m charmed by the prospect,” Krennic said in return, sarcastically, punctuated by a sigh as Tarkin continued to caress his thigh, slowly. He stole a glance at the other man, his growing erection didn’t go unnoticed, but Tarkin feigned ignorance. “Absolutely _delighted_. You know, if you wanted to sleep with me, you could just ask,” he continued, emboldened by the lack of punishment from his collar. “There’s no need to orchestrate all of this. Or was asking somehow beneath your station?”

“You’d sleep with anyone who asked nicely,” Tarkin snorted, withdrawing his foot from Krennic’s thigh and letting go of his chin. There was a flash of something—disappointment? A continuation of his ever-burning fury towards him?—but Tarkin didn’t quite catch it and didn’t care. “Anyone who stroke your ego sufficiently. It’s obvious. However, from now onwards you have to behave, boy. Sleeping around isn’t proper behaviour for a consort of a king, even if it is what your Court considered a past time. Unless, of course...it is with my knowledge and permission.”

“In another word, you don’t like to share, unless it can benefit you in some way,” Krennic quipped. “Doesn’t it?”

Tarkin snapped a finger, and the familiar snap and hiss of the collar’s magic delivered its sentence. “Defiant behaviour won’t be tolerated, either. Don’t think you can get away with disrespectful words, Krennic. You no longer have the freedom to do so.” 

Krennic’s seething anger returned, and Tarkin had to smile. There was something delightful about seeing him angry, and, moreover, of putting him in his place. He personally considered halfbloods to be an abomination that ranks even lower than humans, filth that does not deserve a place in any Court, much less in the order of things. It doesn’t matter if they had been granted entry into the Court and fullblood status by the reigning monarch, it doesn’t change their base, treacherous nature in the slightest. Thankfully, they are few and far between, and even fewer are those that managed to claw their way up in the hierarchy, but even then, Tarkin held them in special contempt.

Krennic’s only saving grace was that the fae side of his family was a respectable one, even if they do have a reputation for being scheming and petty. And, of course, now that he was where Tarkin wanted him to be—where he thinks Krennic _belonged_ —he could be an asset. 

He can’t deny the serpentine heat in his belly, either, when he looked at him, and, to Krennic’s apparent surprise, Tarkin grabbed his face, forcing the other fae to pull himself up, and, leaning down, he kissed him full on the lips. He felt Krennic’s hand, vaguely, gripping the side of his trousers, but it was a backseat impression, secondary to the heat from his mouth on his, a sweet sensation, his head buzzing with pleasure, as the desire in his stomach grows like a poisonous blossom. 

He knows the other knows. They kissed for a while—Krennic returned his kiss, tentatively, a sort of unwilling acquiescence, although it was probably his refusal to submit completely—and he let his hand go down to his collarbone, privately marvelling at how different the other man is, at their physical closeness, but mostly, at the power he now held over him. Tarkin felt Krennic flinch—lighter than the beat of a butterfly’s wings, quicker than a heartbeat—at his touch, although the other man regained his composure very quickly, and he pulled away.

“We’re going to my chambers,” he stated, shifting his gaze elsewhere, as fast as he could. “There is a private, hidden door here that will lead us there. Leave your clothes. I’ll send a servant to pick it up later.”

“It’s not as if I have a choice,” Krennic replied after a beat, much too softly for Tarkin’s liking. There was something in it that was more horrible than red-hot fury, more...threatening than defiance (although Krennic’s defiance had never been much of a threat in the first place), though perhaps the right word for it would be unsettling. Tarkin tried to ignore an odd, rising feeling that his tone—and a fleeting glance of the look on Krennic’s face—had elicited. “Lead the way.”

Still, he thought, still, he wanted him, and that was his undoing.

* * *

Tarkin’s private chambers was a much grander affair than his study, a testimony of fine taste and finer sensibilities—although Krennic would argue that he was simply trying too hard, out of spite—although, much like his study, it looked like it had not been used in a while. Predictably, his study is where he truly lived. His chambers are just there for the rare moments that he needed rest (they don’t as much sleep or rest as humans do, it is more like a recreational activity than anything of importance) or, god forbid, some reprieve, some private getaway from the rest of the world, or at least, Krennic theorised as much. 

Not that he had much time to observe—not for the moment—with the other man’s lips once more pressed on his, his hands slowly yet surely directing him towards the bed. Krennic felt a sort of great inner conflict of emotions—on one hand, he had never loathed Tarkin half as much as he is now, had never been so repulsed, but on the other hand, he felt a familiar fiery desire nesting in his belly, fury’s sensuous twin. It was confusing, and he hated it.

Everything about this—and by extension, this evening—was wrong, and yet. 

He tried to convince himself that there is an opportunity to be had in this, that this was how secrets are seduced out of their hiding place. First they kiss, and then they had sex, and eventually...the other man will drop crumbs, bits and pieces that he could use to get himself out from this situation. After all, he did say—condescendingly, annoyingly—that Krennic had to outsmart him. That was the condition. And that should be easy. Even if Tarkin himself would never admit it, Krennic could sense his desire for him.

This wasn’t solely about power or sealing the deal. 

The other man was already hard, his hard-on pressing against the fabric of his trousers, although he was still fully clothed, and the fact that Krennic was just as hard—his was fully evident, as he was already naked—made it seems as if the act was fully consensual, as if they were lovers without any complication between them. Tarkin’s kisses turned greedy, and his lips seeks Krennic’s neck, the back of Krennic's knees hitting the edge of the bed. Krennic felt fear and disgust and anxiety and desire all at once, flooding through him, and he wasn’t yet sure if he wanted to push the other man away or pull him in and let him kiss him harder. 

“You don’t seem to be very enthusiastic,” Tarkin said, his hand veered into the small of his back and then lower. Krennic swallowed, not sure what he really meant by that.

“It’s harder when you don’t really have a choice, if that’s what you’re asking,” he responded, sarcastically, masking his true emotions. It comes easier to him than he initially thought. “I seem to remember you making a remark about how what I have is of little interest to you. You don’t seem to act in accordance with that now, Your Majesty.”

“Ah, but things change with the seasons, boy,” Tarkin told him, his fingers fondling his buttocks, his lips pressing another kiss on his neck. Krennic sighed, suppressing a moan. “At least, that’s what humans say. I thought you would be well-versed in that. But I still have a very low opinion of you, Krennic, if that’s what you’re asking. This changes nothing.”

“You could not consummate this if you hated me that much,” Krennic whispered, letting his hand caress the other man’s thigh for a moment before Tarkin caught his wrist. He smiled. “Remember, one of us had a choice here.”

He was pulled into a forceful kiss before he could take another breath, Tarkin’s arm wrapped around him possessively, the other still gripping his wrist. Krennic squirmed in his grasp, appropriately, feeling dread and desire both welling up inside his stomach. Tarkin forced his lips open, and he let out a muffled noise of protest.

When he finally let go of him, the desire was evident in his eyes.

“I would not want to miss the chance of bringing you to heel,” Tarkin said, his blue eyes hardening, like ice, his tone equally cold. His fingertips brushed Krennic’s cheek lightly, delicately, for a brief moment. “And besides, I have to admit, you are quite attractive. A tempting possibility.”

He released Krennic’s wrist, but then shoved him backwards to the bed. Krennic landed there, unceremoniously, feeling his stomach tighten. Tarkin stood back and appraised him for a moment, before he, too, climbed to the bed, the weight shifting as he climbed on top of him. Krennic’s fury was now as cold as the look on Tarkin’s eyes, as cold as the slithering fear nestling between his ribcage, but the greedy strands of desire still burn hot in the pit of his stomach. The other man kissed him, harder than before, and this time, Krennic kissed him back, letting his fury and loathing bleeds through, wrapping both of his hands around him. He felt himself unconsciously tensing as he felt Tarkin’s hands on his body, and a hiss escaped his mouth.

“Don’t worry, boy,” Tarkin said, pulling away for a moment, his tone mocking. He brushed a strand of light brown hair away from Krennic’s temple, and Krennic flinched at that, drawing his arms back to his side. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he pressed his lips on his, a hand stroking Krennic’s cock, and Krennic arched his back, a low moan escaping his lips. “I merely am going to have my way with you. And you will indulge me. What do you say to that?”

“Yes, sire,” Krennic said, almost automatically, feeling his cheeks flush. He was suddenly acutely aware of the press of Tarkin’s body against him—the fabric of his clothes fine and stiff like the man himself—and of the collar around his throat, a little constricting, not to mention his own nakedness, his body on display for the other man’s pleasure. The sheets underneath him were silk, and Tarkin was straddling him, his knees on both sides of his hips, pinning Krennic to the bed. He was aware, too, of the hardness of his cock, and the frustration building up inside of him, familiar and terrible at the same time. He bit his lower lip, realising that the other man was still looking at him expectantly. “I will indulge you.”

“Good,” Tarkin smiled, only slightly, as was his custom, and his praise was as sparse as his smile, but Krennic felt a warmness in his belly nevertheless. He hated it. “Be a good little bird and stay still for a moment, will you? I have something for you. Not that you are able to fly away, of course, but you do need a reminder.”

He felt strangely weak and lightheaded, unsure if it was because of the desire, the repulsion, or something else altogether, and he could only nod at that. He found himself vainly hoping for another kiss, perhaps, or another stray touch, want and disgust mingling together in the pit of his stomach, a potent cocktail, leaving his limbs heavy and his head heavier still, like lead, like a dying man in the middle of a snowstorm, but the other man merely pulled away, the bed shifting again under his weight as he withdraws himself temporarily. Damn him and his flat-out refusal of vulnerability, Krennic thought, although of course, this wasn’t an act of love or even passion. As Tarkin said: this changes nothing.

Only another move in the game they’re playing, but losing had never felt so good, almost sinfully so. At least for the moment. Not that he would ever admit it.

Tarkin returns both a moment too soon and a moment too late—time passes even more strangely and erratically in this strange little kingdom of theirs—with silk ribbons, his elegant (yet there was a roughness to it that betrays his true nature, all of them are monsters and forever will be such) hands encased in soft satin gloves. Krennic felt a thrill shivering through him, not quite awakening all his senses just yet, but a preview of what was to come, dispelling, at last, the lingering fear and anxiety. There was still that old hatred, of course, soft and beckoning and comfortable, but if anything, it serves to arouse him even more now. He felt himself move without thinking—moving towards _him_.

“Patience, my pet,” Tarkin said, lifting to a finger, and Krennic slumped back to the bed. With anyone else, the words would be accompanied by a triumphant if not teasing grin, but there was only the barest hint of a playful, smug smile in his gaunt features. Everything with Tarkin is a game, is politics, and he always refused to drop more than hints. “Close your eyes,” he continued, voice almost a pleasant purr, and this time Krennic did as he was told, willingly. “Don’t move. This will be just a moment.”

It was too much and not enough at once, the frustration becoming almost unbearable, the hatred threatening to spill over. He felt the bed shift, again, the faintest touch of satin on his wrists, moving them above his head, forcing them together like that, and Tarkin looped the silk ribbon around them. When he was done, Krennic’s wrists are bound above his head, and he felt Tarkin’s fingers on them for a brief moment, checking the knots.

“You may open your eyes now,” he said, withdrawing his hands from Krennic’s wrists, and Krennic opened his eyes to find him too close for comfort, his proximity both distracting and frustrating, his usually cold eyes touched by...something resembling an emotion. He wanted to kiss him, and then hopefully kill him afterwards, although strangling is a little hard to achieve for the moment, with his own hands temporarily out of commission. His mouth felt dry. “Well,” Tarkin said, touching his chin, prompting Krennic to look at him while he appraised him openly, his gaze naked and greedy, stripping Krennic down to the core. He felt the other man’s gaze went down from his wrists, forced together above his head, to his face—openly savouring the silently frustrated, helpless look in his eyes—to his bare chest, then to his lower abdomen, and eventually, slowly, to his swollen cock, drinking him in like he was an object to be judged, or a potential toy. 

“Aren’t you a pretty little thing? I’ve clipped your wings real good, don’t you think, pet? How far you have come,” he added, dryly, and Krennic bit his bottom lip, uncomfortably aroused and very much frustrated, and also still very much wanted to kill Tarkin for putting him in this position. “You’ve aspired a little too much and went a little too far, and ended up in my bed as my pet. What do you have to say about that?”

He felt the familiar defiance welling up inside his chest, but no cold remark forming inside his mouth this time, no acid riposte. He bit his own tongue, for the first time choosing silence, although he reminded himself that it wasn’t submission. Still, the truth dragged itself out from its hiding place, dragging him with it, kicking and screaming.

“I have nothing to say, sire,” Krennic said, feeling his cheeks flush again from the emotional exertion, the truth taking its toll on him. The slight hitch in his voice betrayed his true emotion, and he shifted his legs, uneasily. “I may have gone a little too far this time, going beyond my own abilities. What now?”

Tarkin nodded in response, seemingly satisfied by his answer, although it could just be the undeniable, inevitable power trip. Krennic glared at him. “Now I’m going to _use_ you, my princeling. Be on your best behaviour.” 

He felt Tarkin’s lips on his, then, slow at first, then insistent, urgent, while his hands pinned him to the bed, the satin of his gloves like the softest touch of the night on Krennic’s bare skin. He found himself craving the heat of his mouth, the faintest touch of his hands, arching his body towards him, another moan escaping his lips, low and urgent. Tarkin’s lips moved down to his neck, while his hands teased his body, exploring the lines of it, teasing his nipples, and eventually moved lower, first to his abdomen, then to his thigh. Krennic let out a whine, needy and insistent, when Tarkin’s fingers found his cock, stroking it like he did earlier, but this time more persuasive, his own need betraying his composure, every touch bringing Krennic closer to the brink. His breathing ragged, Krennic shifted his bound wrists, cheeks flushed with both desire and embarrassment.

“I seem to recall that you weren’t very enthusiastic earlier,” Tarkin said, his fingers teasing his erection, stroking and squeezing his cock lightly, which elicited a string of throaty moans from Krennic. “And I would have thought that you have more endurance than this,” he continued, fingertips tracing the precome collecting on the head, giving his cock another squeeze, and Krennic thrust his hips towards him, once, the pressure becomes unbearable, and Tarkin’s hand teasing him doesn’t really help. He felt beads of sweat collecting on his temple, straining against his silken restraints. “Are you going to come, my pet? Now, like this? Can’t wait a moment longer?”

Tarkin’s smile was crueller than the harvester’s scythe, sharper and more vivid than a harvest moon. There was a cruel beauty to it, to him, but Krennic could no longer pay attention, as Tarkin’s fingers continued teasing and stroking and squeezing him to the brink, only interrupted briefly when he kissed him on the lips, subduing the groans that Krennic made. But his kisses only registered vaguely, now, every other sensation secondary—the sheets, his restraints, the fabric of Tarkin’s clothes, the deal—to the feel of his gloved fingers on his cock, coaxing pleasure out of him. He was close to the brink now, very close, filled with wanting and desperation and nothing else, sweat threading his hair, and only then did he feel the other suddenly stopped.

“You really are impatient,” Tarkin remarked, more than a touch smug. “I would have thought that you would last longer than this.”

Krennic opened his mouth to answer, but was cut short by Tarkin’s fingers, again stroking his cock, squeezing it a bit harder than before, and he arched his back, moaning louder than the last, the sound large and intrusive in the spacious bedchamber. 

“Please,” he breathed, trying to twist his way out of Tarkin’s grasp. “Not now. Not like this. Please.”

It doesn’t take long for the realisation of what he had just done to set in, and Krennic could feel the heat rushing to his cheeks immediately. Tarkin had stopped, although he still gripped Krennic’s cock in one hand delicately, before he released it and leans closer, putting his hands on either side of Krennic’s face. 

“What did you just say, pet?” he said in a low voice, his tone both dangerous and inviting. Krennic breathed in, feeling unusually nervous, noticing that Tarkin was looking at him expectantly. He exhaled, but the nervousness was still caught in his throat. 

“ _Please_ ,” Krennic repeated, a little sarcastically this time, although the word was evidently still raw on the edges, like an open wound, or the truth. “I don’t want to come like this, and I could last longer if you let me. Your Majesty,” he quickly added, since Tarkin was still looking at him expectantly.

There was a brief silence that felt like forever, and Tarkin smiled, without a touch of humour. “Unfortunately, that is no longer up to you, little bird, although I do love hearing you beg.”

Krennic felt something hot and heavy in the pit of his stomach at that, something like molasses, his need for the other growing with every single word. He was so close now, he could feel it, and it took every inch of his self-control to stay still, as Tarkin landed another kiss—slow and imperious—his hands reaching for his cock again, implacable and callous as the rest of him. For he was a merciless and uncaring god, Krennic realised, and he had walked right straight into his trap. He could no longer think as the man brought him to the edge, thrusting his hips towards him, his cock twitching and the tightness increasing until he eventually can’t hold it in anymore, and he comes, messily, on Tarkin’s hands, although not fully, and he writhed as he came, not really caring that he probably stained the other man’s sheets, unable to think, his thoughts as blank and white as a painting of a winter landscape, a series of hoarse moans and groans and sighs escaping from his throat. He felt the other man’s fingers still squeezing his cock, milking every last drop, until he slumped back on the bed, a pleasant buzz filling his head and an equally pleasant haze slowly settling over his limbs. His throat felt dry, and his hair was damp with sweat.

Still, it wasn’t for long. He felt Tarkin’s gaze on him and forced himself to look at him, his satin gloves now ruined by streaks of white, a wry expression on his face as he scanned the mess that they had made. 

“Well, look at the mess you had made of yourself, boy,” Tarkin said, rubbing his hands, briefly, on Krennic’s thigh, before stripping the gloves off his hands and tossed them aside. “Impatient and impudent. You’ve ruined my sheets. I have half a mind to punish you.”

“It’s hardly my fault,” Krennic said, hoarsely. It took him a moment to find his voice again. “You call this _consummation_?”

Tarkin shot him a sharp look, and Krennic immediately regretted saying that. The implications of it were worse than any jolt the collar could have given him. “This is simply the beginning,” he said, naked fingertips touching Krennic’s face. “The night is still young, my pet. Don’t worry, I’m planning to claim you before it’s over. Or are you not up for the challenge?”

He was trying, plainly, to get a rise out of him, but Krennic bit his tongue. “You know I don’t get a say about that. You’re the one calling the shots, Your _Radiance_.”

“Your attempt at sarcasm is both childish and unamusing,” Tarkin said, pulling away, and Krennic belatedly noticed that he, too, had somehow come, inside his trousers, perhaps when he was bringing him to the brink. It doesn’t surprise Krennic that his petty torture of him gets him off. “But it’s good that you have acknowledged my authority, little bird. I suppose you are salvageable, provided that you stopped resisting and continue to submit to my rules.”

“Fuck you,” Krennic told him, gathering all of his anger and loathing behind it. Tarkin doesn’t seem very surprised, and Krennic felt the familiar shock jolting him, the pain mingles with the leftover pleasure, awakening his body. “I’m not going to be your plaything for long, Tarkin. I will see to that.”

An amused, cruel smile played in the corners of Tarkin’s lips. “I’d say you are in desperate need for training, starting tomorrow. Now conserve your energy, boy, I still have need of you tonight.”

He then moves to untie him, his movements graceful, his elegant fingertips brushing ever so lightly against Krennic’s bare skin, quick and efficient. Krennic was almost disappointed that the King didn’t linger—not in touch, not in kisses, not even a single lingering gaze. The perfunctory coldness that had been so closely associated with him returned, and Krennic felt a deep and all-consuming urge to grab him and kiss him after he had been freed of his restraints, although he quickly mastered himself before he could do anything of the sort. This changes nothing, he repeated to himself in private thought, still aching from Tarkin’s ministrations.

They are still enemies. Tarkin had withdrawn, back to that private shell of his, dusting himself as if nothing happened. He spared Krennic the briefest and most perfunctory of glances, already turned towards the door on one end of the room. There are three doors in the chamber: one where they came from, hidden behind a tapestry, one on the far end, ornate and evidently the main entry, and the other where Tarkin seemed to be heading. Krennic guessed that it led to a short, private hallway that would lead to his solar, where they usually conduct official business.

“I am going to pour myself a drink,” Tarkin started, coolly. Krennic briefly detected a hint of doubt in his cultured voice, as if he wasn’t quite sure where he’s going with this and that he probably should keep it to himself and would regret it, but it quickly vanished. “You’re welcome to pour some for yourself, here. Second drawer to the right,” he gestured, “middle shelf. Do not touch the others, or anything else. I will rejoin you soon. I expect you would be ready.”

The implication was clear: he didn’t want to risk any emotional closeness. Krennic could almost laugh at that. It wasn’t as if he wanted this—them—to eventually become something as delicate yet as terrifying and unpredictable as love. Once, he thought that he loved someone, and he lost him. The Fair Folk couldn’t love, they could only imitate the more glorious yet ephemeral passions of human beings. 

Besides, the inevitable awareness of the collar around his neck and the heavy, oppressive air it affected on him—his magic trembled and hid underneath his skin, the iron content of it and the overall unknown magic that forged it was something to be frightened of—reminded him that with Tarkin, he could not afford to feel anything less than absolute hatred and that he should always be on his guard.

He let it show on his face as he propped himself up to look at him. “It’s not too late if you want to back out now,” he mocked, knew that at that moment his eyes blazed with such hatred as to rival the stars in the night sky. “I would consider that last orgasm as charity. In fact, you could consider all of this as charity.”

Tarkin looked bored, yet his gaze bore into Krennic intensely. “Is that all? I am done trading blows with you at the moment, boy. Pour yourself some drink or not, I don’t care, but you’d better be here when I return, and you’d better be ready. Now quit your twittering, I am taking my leave.”

And, without saying anything else—just shot Krennic an undoubtedly stern look—he turned on his heels stiffly and left, the door closing softly behind him. Krennic let his shoulders slump, for a moment, before letting out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

He had better start thinking of a way out of this, and start thinking fast.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Chiss delegation is arriving in Tarkin's Court, and Krennic thinks that he could use them to his own end. Tarkin, as always, is not pleased. Things...happen, as they always did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took me so long, real life gets in the way. And I'm technically on hiatus, briefly, but I will try to update this (and Pandora) when I can. Thank you for waiting, and I hope you guys will enjoy this! <3

The winter landscape outside the window was deceptively calm, sheets of white covering the trees and the ground for as far as the eyes could see. The sky was a gash of grey, and every now and then there are movements, skittering or walking or running past the trees, but otherwise, everything was still, as if a kind of heavy inertia had settled over the land, a veil that had hidden the true nature of things. The sun was still in the sky, but its light was pale and sickly, nothing like the glorious summer sun. It was high winter, December by human standards, and the Unseelie Court was in power. The landscape reflected this fact.

The King of Winter sat in his seat near the window in his library, observing the view. It was both familiar and comforting at the same time, as much a portrait of him as it was the condition of nature. Another year had almost passed, although time passed differently here in Faerie, and for them, time is not linear, but a circular inevitability, the passing and balancing of power. There are, of course, subtle shifts and minor hiccups as they play their games with each other (such games are often deadly, but mostly incomprehensible to most human beings), but the bigger picture remained, and as long as the cycle continued and the seasons change, things will remain the same.

He felt the air subtly shift before the other man entered the room, but didn’t glance up from what he was reading. A leather-bound book lay open before him, and beside it, a teapot and a cup, filled with half-drank black tea. The habit was unnecessary and has no real physical value, since they don’t need food and drink the way that humans need them for daily sustenance, but they all had their vices. He discovered that such a thing gave him an excuse to sit alone for an hour or two in the solar without disturbance, to sift through and align his thoughts and revisit his plans in privacy. 

Of course, every now and then, there are…distractions. The doors swung open, and the man who had opened them admitted himself into the room, all swirling floor-length cape and all the manners of an impromptu heatwave. He was dressed in whites again today as if imitating the winter landscape outside—a bystander who knows nothing about him would say that he was paying homage to the Court he was currently in—but Tarkin knows better.

Krennic likes to stand out. He never wanted, never deign it worthy to try to blend in. Tarkin spared him a glance, turning a page, the sound was drowned out by Krennic’s brisk, forceful footsteps. He stopped just short of Tarkin’s seat.

“You’re late,” Tarkin said before he could say anything, a light hint of disapproval in his voice. “Do you always have to barge in with such theatrics? I thought that I had taught you better _manners_ for the past few months.”

“You forgot to tell me something,” Krennic snarled, doesn’t even bother responding to what Tarkin was saying. He always had been the volatile sort, temperamental even compared to members of his own Court. Somehow it endears him to most of Tarkin’s Court—Unseelie are naturally attracted to chaos and disorder, of whatever form—but he had been especially moody lately, and the shift didn’t escape Tarkin’s attention. It was irritating, obnoxious even, but he still held Krennic’s leash—which is evidently the cause of his black moods—and therefore it does not bother him that much. “Something big and _important_. Does that ring a bell?”

Tarkin raised an eyebrow but didn’t rise to the bait. “Did I?” he asked, laconically. “I don’t remember owing or promising you important information of any sort. You do, however, owe me a report on your dinner with the Lady Pryce, among other things.”

“You do _now_ ,” Krennic said, taking the liberty to occupy the empty seat near him. “Tell me about the delegation that’s due to arrive tonight.”

“Demanding,” Tarkin told him, scolding him lightly. “Ask nicely, pet, and I might give you more than just a crumb of information.”

Krennic glared at him from across the table, but Tarkin deliberately ignored him, turning his attention back towards the book he was reading. There was a fair amount of silence, but Krennic eventually acceded. As he always did.

“ _Fine_ ,” he said, displeasure apparent. His bright blue eyes flashed with his usual anger, and he inhaled before letting the words out, appropriating a saccharine sweet smile. It was quite the sight, and he did have the charms necessary to pull the trick—all Seelie fae are more or less gifted in the art of charming persuasion—but of course, Tarkin would never admit it to his face. “ _Please_ tell me about the delegation that is coming to your Court tonight,” he said, smiling brightly. “And might I add that you look especially _striking_ this afternoon, Your Majesty.”

“Lies,” Tarkin immediately retorted, flicking him a stern look. “I don’t know how you do it, boy, but that is definitely a lie. And flattery will get you nowhere.” he let it sink in, taking the time to study the other. “You’re lucky I’m not in the mood to discipline you.”

A dark shadow seemed to cross Krennic’s face, and his smile disappeared, replaced by a tired look. He leaned back on his seat, crossing his arms over his chest. He doesn’t look very happy, Tarkin thought. But then again, he rarely does when they’re in the same room together, and he would never shy away from admitting that he takes great pleasure in making Krennic suffer. And why shouldn’t he? They were enemies, or something of that sort. He didn’t doubt that, but the strange, oppressive feeling that he felt just now—an odd tightening in his chest—was bothersome, and even more bothersome was the sneaking feeling that Krennic was telling the truth, or at least some version of it, with his compliment earlier. They know it: their flatteries of each other are never empty, but filled with some strange, mute version of the truth, because a lie is a human province, and therefore it is forever out of their touch. 

Tarkin quickly pushed the thoughts and unwelcome feeling aside, waiting for Krennic to repeat his demands, or throw a tantrum of sorts, or even an insult his way. He didn’t. Tarkin turned another page, and emptied his cup before he decided to break the silence.

“You don’t seem very happy here,” he remarked, off-handedly, glancing at the other man. He was uncharacteristically quiet. “Is anything the matter?”

“What do you care?” Krennic snapped, effusive anger showing through. “ _You’re_ the one who put me in this situation. Your Court is as drab and cold as you are, and honestly, I’m sick of the cold. It’s _everywhere_.”

His little outburst wasn’t surprising in the slightest, and Tarkin had indeed predicted that this would happen sooner or later. But still, the strange, unwelcome feeling returned, and he poured himself another cup of tea, deliberately avoiding the younger man’s gaze. He did not feel guilty in the slightest—if anything, he felt triumphant every time he looked at Krennic—and guilt is as strange a creature to him as their customs and ways are to human beings, not to mention that he couldn’t quite bring himself to care enough about what Krennic thinks of his Court, much less the _weather_ —although it was obvious that the younger fae was alluding to something else, not merely being literal, they were never quite that straightforward with each other, despite their bursts of blatant, sharp honesty—but still, he felt…concern. 

An alien sensation. Tarkin sipped his tea, looked out at the familiar view his window offered. He felt Krennic’s gaze on him, equal parts furious and curious. It, too, was a familiar look, quite as familiar as the landscape outside. He let his thoughts take its course, letting the silence between them grow and take root. The other man shifted in his seat, obviously unsettled.

“You are simply out of your element, boy,” he told him, coolly, breaking the silence. “That is what happened when you aimed too far beyond your own abilities. That, certainly, wasn’t any fault of mine.”

Silence fell between them—an unnatural one—and Krennic opened his mouth, about to argue or insult him or make a snide remark, but for some reason, he closed it again and looked away. Tarkin let the silence stay, unbothered by it for the most part (although _Krennic’s_ silence was odd, unnerving), continued reading the book. He doesn’t really feel the need to break the silence, but he eventually did, to spite Krennic more than anything.

“A Chiss delegation is arriving tonight,” he said, not looking at him, “although the term ‘delegation’ is certainly misleading, since I am told that there would only be two of them, and some three guards. Their leader made it very clear that this isn’t any large, official business. Certainly, they do want this to be hush-hush. I wonder why.” Tarkin met Krennic’s gaze and held it, knowing that the gears and levers of the other man’s mind are working full speed even as he spoke. They are similar in a way: they could always see an opportunity to further their ambitions, but their similarities ended there. “You,” he added, his gaze hardening, “are going to stay well out of the way unless I have need of you. Do you understand, little bird?”

“Why?” Krennic snapped, coming alive with his fury, his eyes vivid and all alight with anger, fists clenching. “Is it because I’m your hostage? Or are you afraid that I’m going to try to undermine and outsmart you?”

“No,” Tarkin bared his teeth in return. “It’s because it is none of _your_ business, and you are not part of my Court. Remember, boy, you are my pet, and you have to obey me.” 

Despite the sharpness of his tone, he pursed his lips and extended a hand, stiffly, brushing the side of Krennic’s face. The gesture doesn’t come naturally to him—it felt less stilted in his head—even if he had done this before, done variations of this when they were together for the past months, and he could see that Krennic was just as surprised, blue eyes widening slightly, and he stiffened at Tarkin’s touch—he felt a strange pang in his heart at that, even if this, too, was nothing out of the ordinary—but did not flinch, did not pull away. 

“That aside, I…do not know yet what their intentions are,” he continued, withdrawing his hand. “We each have our own secrets, and you carry secrets of your Court with you as much as I carry mine with me. It would be in both our best interests if we keep it that way until I found out what they wanted,” he said, resting both of his hands on his lap. “Thus, it is best if you stay well out of the way.”

An awkward silence soon follows, and they avoided each other’s gaze gamely. Tarkin almost regretted telling Krennic that, not only because of the obvious, but also because he felt strangely exposed afterwards, as if he had just cut open his own chest and held out his own heart, as if had imparted to him some strange and unsayable truth about himself. It was a perplexing, revolting feeling, and he immediately tried to convince himself—obsessively—afterwards that it was nothing, and for the most part, it was true. Tarkin had no doubt that he would ferret out something useful soon enough from Krennic, so long as he was effectively under his power, and he would rather that _he_ became the one uncovering them, than some unknown member of a dying Court, and he knew that Krennic would go great lengths to spite him or, better yet, to outsmart him. He had anticipated _this_ possibility, and now, he thought, now Krennic knows, too.

The King of Winter was never a sentimental man. Their feelings towards each other, Tarkin reminded himself, remained unchanged.

“You’ve spun a pretty reason,” Krennic finally said, turning to face him, holding his gaze, but there was a faraway quality to it still, a sort of unmooring, although it didn’t last long before he quickly snapped out of it and brought himself back to the present. “You simply tried to protect me from potential dangers and threats that the Chiss could pose, is that it? Do you think I’m blind, Tarkin, or that naive? I know you,” he said, the sharpness of his tone reminded Tarkin of the sun’s glare when it hits the ice, “you were _never_ a selfless creature. Besides, you, concerned about _my_ well-being? Don’t make me laugh.”

He felt his stomach clench and a sort of cold anger rising inside his chest, despite himself. “You’re right,” he said, before he could stop himself. “I don’t care about you. You are merely my toy, a past time. A bad _addiction_ ,” he added, swallowing his anger, gripping the edge of the table. “Now stop talking. I have a couple of hours to kill before they arrive, and I summoned you here because I wanted a distraction. I do not care to converse idly with you.”

Krennic narrowed his eyes, a picture of explosive, suppressed fury, menace and danger slowly unspooling and oozing from the way he held himself, back rigid, his lips a thin, displeased line. Impulse warred with self-control in his eyes, and for a moment Tarkin thought about his wolves, the ones he kept around. It was so typical of Krennic, fuelling his own mythology instead of letting his own magic dictate the language of fear. There was a certain resemblance between him and his creatures—eyes wild, hackles rising, ready to pounce—and he readied himself for either the inevitable confrontation or the collar’s magic, whichever comes first, but it never happened. Instead, a slow, lazy smile spreads over Krennic’s lips, and he tilted his head. There was something bothersome about his gaze, something unnerving, a knowing look. 

“An addiction,” he started, drawling over the syllables slightly. “You admitted that you _are_ addicted to me. I never expected that, from you.”

His tone was light, irritating, but Tarkin silenced him with a glare. “Only in the worst sense of it. Don’t flatter yourself, boy. Do me a favour and stop talking, please.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Krennic said, but his tone was mocking, and his smile turned into a sneer. “What do you want me to do?”

Tarkin didn’t immediately respond, but extended a hand, tracing the collar of his tunic, dragging his fingertips slowly, lazily, on his chest, before gripping the fabric and pulling him forward, roughly, for a kiss. He let Krennic kissed him back, just as fiercely, just as violently, his hand gripping Tarkin’s shoulder. This was an old game at this point, and they stayed like that for a bit, lips desperately trying to find the other, the heat from Krennic’s mouth a familiar sort of burning, and pleasantly distracting. He felt the other man’s breath catch inside his lips, and he slid his tongue in, tasting him, while his free hand went to his shoulder, unclasping one end of his cape. It was distracting how much he wanted him, how he couldn’t get enough of him. 

“Just shut up and kiss me,” Tarkin growled, between the kisses. He released the front of his tunic only to unclasp the other side of Krennic’s cape, letting the fabric drop to the floor. “You won’t need this anymore,” he told him, already pulling him in for another kiss, but Krennic obeyed his order and kissed him first, fingertips smoothing the front of Tarkin’s tunic. He felt his own breath catch as the other man’s hands teased his body, his lips insistently pressing on his. It was too much, _too much_ —Tarkin felt his cock stiffening, Krennic’s mouth hot on his, slowly veering down to his jaw, and he pushed him away, held him on an arm’s length. Krennic was plainly surprised by the sudden interruption, but he smiled, wryly.

“What’s wrong? I thought you wanted a _distraction_?” he teased, fingertips tracing Tarkin’s jaw. Tarkin suppressed the instinctive urge to grab him by the wrist. “Wasn’t I supposed to please my king?”

The nerves of this boy, Tarkin thought to himself, it’s a miracle I haven’t turned him to ash. He pressed his lips together, making his displeasure apparent. “Yes, my pet,” he said, pulling away and smoothing himself. “It’s good that you remembered your training. However, you forgot to remember something _crucial_ ,” he stressed, giving him a cold look. “Now please, strip off your clothes and sit there,” he ordered, gesturing towards a sofa in the corner. “Give me a show, little bird. Touch yourself until you’re hard, then put on a cock ring. You carry one with you, don’t you? I’ve ordered you to do as much.”

Krennic clenched his teeth, and Tarkin had to smile. It was a device that he particularly hated, and Tarkin inflicted it on him as often as he liked, and he even goes so far as to order Krennic to carry one with him on his person, just in case he felt like using it on him. It is hard not to exploit and abuse his ownership of him to the fullest, and Tarkin intended to do exactly that. He also intended not to develop any other feelings aside from intense dislike and familiar loathing towards him. This was purely another demonstration of his power, a reminder that the other fae was completely at his mercy. They all liked their power games, it just so happens that it was Tarkin’s cardinal vice.

He watched Krennic nodded, grudgingly, and did as he was told. Tarkin took his time, watching him, only taking his eyes off him when he reached for the nearest hidden shelf and pulled out a bottle of wine and a glass. He poured himself a drink, watching as the other man diligently (though somewhat recklessly) pulled off his clothes—reminiscent of their first night together—exposing his lean, narrow body, and pulled out the requested device from his discarded clothing. There was a certain careless grace about him, despite the fact that he cares very much about what others think of him, humans and fae alike—it was a fact as glaring as the midday sun—and once more Tarkin thought of his wolves, of their long limbs and loping, savage grace. He thought, once, that their heads would make very fine decoration, but it wasn’t their custom to kill their animals. And besides, they belonged to Krennic, bound to him by his magic.

He leaned back, studied the younger man. Their gaze met when he positioned himself in the sofa, and Krennic narrowed his eyes slightly at him—still defiant, even when he’s obeying him—but threw his head back and sighed, as his hands traced the lines of his own body. Tarkin watched him in silence, aroused but not quite, sipping his wine slowly. Krennic was a good liar, as impossible as it sounds, although at the same time he could see his desire for him, even if Tarkin couldn’t quite gauge the degree of his attraction. 

But of course, Krennic wanted to have it _his_ way, to win, and Tarkin will never let him.

Soon enough the other man was visibly aroused, puts on the cock ring, and settled on his seat, his gaze on Tarkin, his lips parted slightly, panting with exertion. Tarkin didn’t immediately made a move, but watched him for a short while, sipping his wine, leaning back on his own seat. He made it clear that he enjoyed the view, letting his gaze slide down from Krennic’s eyes and face—the lines forming on his face like fault lines of an earthquake, a force of nature waiting to be unleashed—to his bare chest, lower abdomen, and eventually to his swollen, restrained cock, his parted thighs and the light perspiration coating his skin. When he looked back up again to meet Krennic’s gaze, he could see red dusting his cheeks, and Tarkin hid his growing smirk behind his wineglass. He drank his wine, watching as the other man shifted impatiently in his seat, desperation and fury mingling in the summer sky of his eyes. He opened his mouth, about to say something, but Tarkin quickly cuts him off.

“Remember your training, my pet,” he said, slowly putting down his glass. It’s not all that empty—there is still a pool of dark liquid at the bottom of it—and Tarkin picked it up again as he made his way, languidly, towards where Krennic is seated. Of course, he only had perhaps two hours until the Chiss arrived (although time is a strange creature in Faerie and often differed even from one Court’s territory to the other), but, he thought, they could wait. And Krennic, too, could wait. He stopped in front of him, looking down at him. “You must be seen and not heard, only speak when spoken to,” he kneeled, offering him the nearly empty glass. “Drink? Perhaps it will help you with the _nerves_. And no, I did not spike it nor poison it—you saw me drinking it earlier. It is a fine vintage wine, from my own personal collection. I gave it to a hapless mortal once, just to see how it’d react.” he smiled, cruelly amused, remembering the memory. “Regardless to say, it didn’t end well for him.”

Krennic pressed his lips together in response, obviously displeased that Tarkin had put him in this position. They’ve been through this song and dance a dozen times now, and Tarkin was well aware that despite the fact that they are—for some unfathomable reason—violently attracted to each other, and despite their shared mutual hatred (perhaps because of it), he wasn’t always entirely willing when Tarkin beds him, but rather in some grey area between terrible want and profound disgust. It really doesn’t help that the collar forced him to obey and submit. 

He took the glass from Tarkin’s hands, grudgingly, eyeing him suspiciously. But he finished the wine in one gulp, and Tarkin took the glass from his hands. “You should have poured me more,” he said, his eyes glittering with something like hatred, something like want. “If I’m drunk enough I’d forget that I was with you.”

Tarkin laughed, a sparse, sophisticated sound, rather like a cold winter breeze, and he puts the glass aside. “I’m not in the business of spoiling you, little bird. Rather, I’m in the business of _disciplining_ you.”

He cups Krennic’s face and kissed him, roughly, feeling him whimper against his mouth. “Why do you call me that?” Krennic whispered, his fingers tracing Tarkin’s chin. “I am not a dumb, helpless animal.”

“It’s true, you are not,” Tarkin admitted, holding his gaze. “I watched your rise in the Summer Court with great interest. They are unprepared for you. But I was ready for you,” he continued, pulling him in for another kiss. “I know your tricks and the kind of man you are. And now…you are my caged bird, my little bird.” he traced the other man’s exposed thigh with his fingers, bringing them close to his erect cock. “I could do whatever I want to you with no consequences. I could _make_ you do whatever I want, and you’ll have to obey me. Kiss me.”

Krennic’s kiss was angry, desperate, but Tarkin lets him, gripping him by the waist. He pulled away before the other man had managed to vent all his frustration and fury, and Krennic let out a small growl. Tarkin smiled. He stood up and dusted himself, giving the younger fae a cold look.

“Be on your best behaviour, my Seelie lordling,” he told him, unbuttoning his own tunic. “I want to fuck you before the Chiss delegation is here.”

* * *

The aftermath wasn’t so bad, Krennic thought. It was when Tarkin left that the uglier emotions that he had grown so familiar with in the other man’s presence—and absence—reared their ugly head. He leaned back in his seat, watching as Tarkin dressed in cold, stony silence, and waited. The other fae was leaner than him, but predatory, his muscles tight and agile, like a feline, or something with a lot of teeth and no mercy. Even Krennic had to admit to himself that there was something dangerously attractive about it, something lethal that couldn’t possibly end well, like birds hurtling themselves into their doom. He heard that, although the King held fewer Hunts than his Court, those never did end well, sometimes not only for the unfortunate humans caught up in the maelstrom but also the participants. The King of the Unseelie was cruel and his Court was crueller, and he fucks like a nightmare, riding him like he was one of the fae horses he rode during one of his Wild Hunts, not his near-equal. Unlike Krennic—or most of fae nobles—Tarkin did not have a favoured horse, and he did not give them nicknames. If he knew their true names, he kept it to himself.

Krennic hated him for all of this, and he hated himself even more than a part of him—only a little, he told himself—enjoys it, the wild, cruel fucking, while Tarkin held him down, smothering his lips with stolen kisses, alternately cooing and ordering him to let him in, raise his ass a little higher, to submit, submit, submit. He had never felt so humiliated, and yet so…satiated, as when he was with him. It is not in a fae’s nature to submit, much less one with a rank and a place in the Court.

He thought, only a little, about his past loves, about his past, and quickly forgotten it. After all, it is in a fae’s nature to forget, and in his Court, in the high summer noon of his Court, there is no reason to remember. There are only opportunities to be seized, love to be chased or spurned, and pleasures aplenty. 

Of course, the man he was watching right now was of a different sort. Krennic watched Tarkin pulled on his coat, dusted himself, and then spared him a glance. There was something akin to a smile in his lips, but one can never be sure, with the King of Winter.

“You may clean up yourself,” he said, a cool order, and Krennic suppressed the urge to lunge at him and kissed him, wildly, terribly, like a night terror, or a summer storm, wanting to push him down and mess up his clothes and _ride_ him. “Don’t worry, little bird, your cleaning magic would still be accessible. You may get dressed too. Or touch yourself to completion after you take off the ring. Whichever would be fine, I don’t particularly care.”

He buttons up his coat, and Krennic cannot suppress the urge to ask. “Are you going to greet the Chiss delegation now?”

Tarkin quirked a small smile. “Why, yes, of course. They are arriving any moment now, and I must greet our older cousins. They _are_ a dying breed, after all. Although they would prefer _ancient_.” 

“And I’m guessing I am not to interfere?”

“Good boy,” Tarkin said, his smile returning, and Krennic felt something hot rushing to his belly. He dipped his head, trying to hide the colour in his cheeks, but it was too late. The other man had seen it. “You’re learning. I think one of these days I’d like to go on a Hunt with you. After all, you hadn’t seen the full extent of Unseelie hospitality.”

Krennic smirked, trying to cover up his earlier embarrassment and the warm feeling coiling inside his stomach after the praise. “I’d like to see that. Now please, Your Majesty, don’t let me hold you back. You have a delegation to meet and greet.”

“And you, pup, had to do something about _that_ ,” Tarkin said, gesturing to Krennic’s cock. “Don’t let me hold you. I’ll see you later after dinner, my pet.”

And before Krennic could say anything in turn—his cheeks once more reddening, this time due to Tarkin’s remark about his _condition_ —the other man left, but not before deftly picking up most of Krennic’s discarded articles of clothing, and dumped it on his feet. Then, with something like a smirk, he was gone.

He was beyond infuriating, but Krennic thought that he got just the way to outsmart him.

* * *

It wasn’t easy to gain information about Tarkin’s first formal meeting with the leader of the delegation. The man himself was absolutely tight-lipped about it, no matter how hard Krennic tried to cajole him—in more ways than one—and he had to persuade several members of his Court to give him bits and pieces about where and when the meeting might have taken place. The credit to the most vital piece of the puzzle goes to Ozzel, Tarkin’s right hand man, the man whose place Pryce coveted, and he managed to convince him—trick him more like—that he had something on the would-be usurper. In the end, Krennic managed to gain the information, and Tarkin was none the wiser. 

Or so he hoped. 

The evening of the meeting, he conveniently made his way towards Tarkin’s study through one of the secret passageways that he had learnt—he had a knack for learning how places work, both fae- and manmade—and didn’t even bother affecting a knock, but instead just opened the door, sweeping in and then affected a surprised look when he found the King there with a Chiss delegate.

_He_ was certainly the leader, that’s for sure. He wore a somber midnight blue tunic, a matching midnight blue robe overlaying it, something that makes him seem like twilight condensed in a humanoid body, and his skin almost glitters in the gloom of Tarkin’s study, like he had swallowed some dark stars. All Chiss had blue skin, and he wasn’t an exception. There are gold epaulettes on his shoulder, an elaboration of his standing. His hair was cut short like Tarkin—who wore it that way for practicality—and Krennic—who did it for reasons other than practicality—but where Tarkin’s was red peppered with a little grey (a sign of power), and Krennic’s was a light chestnut shade, his was a dark blue-black.

“I truly apologise,” Krennic began, feigning an apologetic look. “I didn’t know you were meeting with someone else,” he added, directing his gaze at Tarkin, who returned it with a displeased look, lips pressed into a thin line. “I should go.”

“No, please stay,” the Chiss suddenly interjected, his glowing red gaze meeting Krennic’s, giving him a jolt. _He knows him_. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”

For a moment questions whirled in Krennic’s mind—did he simply forget or was he playing at something? and he wondered, trying to gauge if this man—this new player—could be a potential ally, or a potential enemy like Tarkin said, or even something else, but he quickly masked his confusion. 

“Yes, well, if you don’t mind the _interruption_ , Ambassador Thrawn,” Tarkin said, dryly, a little gleam of loathing in his cold blue eyes as it bore into Krennic. He hated it that he had managed to put him in this place, and Krennic smiled triumphantly in private. “Close the door behind you,” he ordered, and Krennic did, although not without spite. “This is my—“ he beckons Krennic to come closer, but Krennic stayed where he is, smiling. No shock came from his collar. “— _illustrious_ consort, the Lord Krennic. You’ve probably had heard of him.”

The man called Thrawn turned slightly, tilting his head to better look at Krennic. There was a precision to his gaze, a certain sort of focus, and briefly, Krennic felt dissected, naked. Did Thrawn really not recognise him? Then again, it would be dangerous if he admitted it—Tarkin would find a way to weaponise it. 

“He’s not from your Court,” Thrawn observed, turning his gaze back towards Tarkin. Krennic let out an inaudible sigh of relief. 

“No,” Tarkin said, almost lazily, leaning back on his high-backed chair, his gaze alternating between the two men in front of him. “He’s from the Summer Court. We had an _arrangement_.”

“A Seelie,” Thrawn said, swiftly, and just as swiftly made his way over to Krennic, who was still standing near the door. “That is why he shines,” he stated, and Krennic nearly smiled, because he knows Tarkin was watching, and it was obvious that he was unhappy. “No offence to you, of course, Your Majesty,” he told Tarkin. Then, much to Krennic’s surprise—and he reckoned Tarkin’s as well—Thrawn reached for his gloved hand and kissed it, his lips cool over the velvety fabric. “A pleasure to meet you, my lord,” he murmured, and before Krennic could respond or react, he already moved away again, swiftly, back to where he was. “Your consort is indeed a gorgeous specimen, Your Majesty,” he addressed Tarkin, as if nothing had happened. “I have visited the Seelie once. They are the most pleasant and hospitable people. Although I am sure that your Court is just as pleasant and hospitable.”

He knows nothing, Krennic thought, smirking to himself. “A pleasure to meet you too, Ambassador,” he said, smoothly, nodding at him while he made his way to Tarkin’s side, sensing not only displeasure but also growing anger from the King. Part of him was glad that he could spite him, but another part of him dreaded the consequences. 

“About time, little bird,” Tarkin said, a strain in his voice, but he reached up to touch Krennic’s face briefly, a cold, perfunctory gesture. Krennic was otherwise surprised, but didn’t flinch. “Be good now, will you? I’m going to talk business with Thrawn.”

Krennic’s eyes strayed to Thrawn, knowing that he was watching their exchange with great and yet subtle interest. If he hadn’t changed—Chiss rarely does, they were as solid as they were ancient and powerful—then he would be trying to gauge the true nature of the relationship between him and Tarkin. Krennic smiled, disarmingly, but his words were acidic.

“Of course. And you are going to intentionally _exclude_ me from the conversation, aren’t you? You wanted a furniture, not an ally.”

Tarkin gnashed his teeth, and Krennic could sense his frustration. If they were alone, he would have acted on his anger, but there was someone else in the room with them, someone important. “You are _not_ my ally. You might be my consort, but you have your own interests, and I know those do not align with mine, or my Court’s, if you’d excuse my forwardness, boy.”

“I am sorry to interrupt,” Thrawn said, his gaze casually resting on some of the books and tomes on display on the nearest bookshelf before he met their gaze again. “But we are here to talk business, are we not?”

“Why, of course,” Tarkin said, before Krennic could say anything. “I apologise for my consort’s behaviour. He…has his uses, but he did not know how to hold his tongue,” Krennic opened his mouth, as always about to protest, but Tarkin cuts him off. “Not _now_ ,” he said, shushing him, turning back towards Thrawn. “Now please, sit down, my lord ambassador,” he waved his hand, and the bookshelf turned into an austere chair. “Let us talk business.”

Krennic held back a savage smile but held his poise beside Tarkin. The man did not give him a seat, but that was not even on his mind. _This_ was his chance. He knows Tarkin would most likely tear Thrawn apart, and then…well, an opportunity is always there for those who know how to make one. A silence of a thoughtful sort—from Thrawn’s part—falls, punctuated by the sound of fire crackling in the fireplace. Tarkin steepled his hands together, his gaze intense, fixed on the blue-skinned Chiss. Time seemed to slow down to a stop, but then again, time was an abstract concept, here in Faerie where seasons are confined to certain Courts and the inhabitants did not age physically. 

Thrawn leaned forward, a twitch on the left side of his face, near the corner of his lips. A tell. He opened his mouth to speak. “I am here on behalf of the Chiss Ascendancy, in the name of my brother. We seek an alliance with the mighty Winter Court,” he said, and Krennic managed to hide the surprise from his face. Tarkin, however, looked completely nonchalant. “I brought my own terms and conditions for the bargain and the pact, but it is of course negotiable. I do wish we could reach an agreement that would be beneficial for both of us, Your Majesty.”

“Why my Court?” Tarkin asked, immediately, all but baring his teeth. His gaze fell briefly on Krennic. “Why not the Summer Court? You said you have visited them.”

There was a subtle yet mocking tone to his voice, and Krennic didn’t like it. He gave Tarkin a sharp look, realised that it did not completely escape Thrawn’s notice. 

Thrawn kept his gaze focused on Tarkin, but for one stray second his gaze went to Krennic, and there was something else there, something nearly…apologetic. Thrawn straightened his back, clasping his hands together behind his back. His expression hardened. “Because we need strong allies,” he said, and for a fraction of a second, his gaze softens, although it quickly hardened again. “The Chiss Ascendancy…is facing extinction, Your Majesty. Your folk knows us as the beginning of the Fair Folk, and it seems…we are facing our end.”

“Nature does obliterate what it doesn’t need,” Tarkin said, a harsh rasp in his voice. “We in the Winter Court understood most of all the necessity of death.”

“Then you also understood the necessity of survival.”

“Of the fittest, yes,” Tarkin responded, suddenly leaning forward. “It seems to me that the Chiss aren’t quite fit anymore for survival, if you are facing extinction. It is perhaps time anyway. It might be hard to accept, but,” he snapped his fingers, and Krennic felt himself being yanked forward, as if by an invisible leash. “Take a look at my pet here. He’s here because of his own _mistakes_ , Ambassador Thrawn. And yet, he still found it hard to accept.”

“You tricked me—“ Krennic started, feeling a familiar anger seething, an old friend. He felt Thrawn’s eyes on him, observing him and the exchange curiously.

“Quiet,” Tarkin hissed, gripping Krennic’s arm. Krennic tried to wrench free from his grasp, but Tarkin's grip was iron. “Tell me your terms and conditions,” he said to Thrawn, all businesslike. A familiar loathing, black as tar and as poisonous as a nightshade, filled Krennic, and he looked at Tarkin with undisguised hate.

“He’s going to trick you,” Krennic told the Chiss, lifting his chin. He felt Tarkin’s fingers digging into his sleeve. “Then he’ll take over the Ascendancy.”

“With regards to your recent remarks, Your Majesty,” Thrawn said, his voice dropping a few degrees. “I have to regather my thoughts. With your permission, we can adjourn again tomorrow evening.”

“Very well,” Tarkin said, amusedly. There was a gleam in his eyes that Krennic didn’t like, a gleam that reminded him of the night when he came to Tarkin with his proposal. How foolish he was back then. “Time is a luxury we all can afford, after all,” he continued, releasing Krennic’s arm. “And since you seem to have taken a liking to my consort so much—“ his gaze flitted to Krennic for a moment, “you are more than welcome to borrow him tonight, Ambassador. Return him in one piece, but do with him as you will.”

Krennic immediately glared at Tarkin—being used by him and treated as a puppet or a pet is one thing, but being offered to another as if he was just a piece of meat, or property, is another thing, and he felt a new kind of loathing and annoyance welling up within him. The man truly thinks that he can just do whatever he wanted to him without any consequences. Well, Krennic might have a trick or two on his sleeve.

“While that is a very kind offer, I must respectfully decline,” Thrawn said, icily, unclasping his hands. Krennic can’t deny that he felt a certain sort of disappointment at Thrawn’s refusal— _he_ was vital to his scheme, and while he wasn’t looking forward to being handed over to him as if he was just a thing, or a lowly sort of fae, although there was another feeling beside it, another feeling that Krennic wasn’t ready to acknowledge just yet—but all the same, he felt relief, although that quickly turns to dread at the realisation of what Tarkin would do to him tonight. “And if you don’t mind, Your Majesty, I think I should take my leave. My…aide would like to scribe the result of tonight’s meeting, and I must contact my brother.”

It certainly wasn’t standard protocol, and while Krennic was a little surprised at Thrawn’s directness—he obviously hadn’t changed—Tarkin’s expression remained unreadable, unchanged. “Very well,” he said. “You are dismissed. I will meet with you again tomorrow night. And I will remind you that so long as you are here, you are entitled to my hospitality and protection. Make yourself at home, Ambassador.”

“I will,” Thrawn said, nodding, although it was plain to see that his attention was already elsewhere. “Good evening, Your Majesty.”

“Good evening,” Tarkin replied, leaning back on his seat, and Krennic noticed that his shoulders relaxed, slightly, momentarily. “I trust you know your way back to your guest chambers.”

After Thrawn left, Tarkin turned to Krennic, the look on his icy blue eyes savage, merciless. Krennic knows that look well by now—he didn’t like it, but he can’t deny the shivers of pleasure that it sent all over his body.

“Well, little bird,” he drawled, looking Krennic up and down. “It looks like it’s just us now. And I do have to discipline you…for barging in into the meeting like that. You have been naughty, haven’t you? Snooping around and interrupting a very important meeting.”

Krennic bit his bottom lip, knowing full well what Tarkin wanted him to say. “Please…please don’t punish me, Sire. I was just…curious.”

“And curiosity,” Tarkin said, stood up from his seat. “Killed the cat.”

* * *

“Are you comfortable, little bird?” 

Tarkin’s voice came from somewhere in the vicinity, not yet too close for comfort, but close enough for it to be undoubtedly intimate, and Krennic felt another shiver ran down his spine. He couldn’t see him, his gaze restrained by a blindfold, silky, light, and oddly comfortable, and once more, he was naked except for the collar around his neck, and he was sitting on the other man’s bed. He tilted his head, trying to gauge where the other fae is from the sound of his voice. 

“Yes,” Krennic said, unable to hide the truth, but still tried to resist. “But also no.”

The bed shifted, and he knows that the other man was moving closer, and Krennic could imagine him, all ropy muscles and feline-like movements, his gaze intent. He felt his face being cupped, and Tarkin’s lips were on his—a familiar kiss, rendered in a relatively new situation. During the time Krennic spent in his Court—and undoubtedly, his bed—they had experimented with a lot of things, or, more specifically, Tarkin made him do a variety of things, but this one…well. He had been punished before, but not like this. Krennic licked his lips after the other man pulled away, feeling his cock stiffening as Tarkin’s fingers teased his exposed skin. 

“You should not enjoy your punishment so much…” Tarkin trailed off, his fingers tracing Krennic’s bare chest, down to his stomach. “But I have to admit, I wanted to enjoy you.”

“Wasn’t that’s what you’ve always do?” Krennic shivered, feeling the other man guide his fingers to touch his body, feeling himself manoeuvred for a kiss, and he kissed him, the familiar loathing mixed with undeniable want. “I wanted to enjoy you, too.”

“Not tonight, my little lordling,” he said, pushing Krennic’s fingers away, and despite himself, Krennic felt disappointed. For all of the time that they’ve been together, the other man had never so much as let him touch him beyond what’s necessary, as aloof in bed as he is outside the bedroom, and, irritatingly, that only made Krennic wanted him more. And loathed Tarkin more, as it is. “Tonight, I want to kiss every inch of you,” he pushed Krennic backwards, and he felt the bed shifted as the other man moved. “I want to remind you who you belonged to.”

“ _You_ were the one who offered me to Thrawn,” Krennic said, and a question crossed his mind—a weapon—but he decided to save it for later, biting his tongue. “I don’t have a say in that, remember.”

His candid remark was returned with a kiss, one that Krennic doesn’t want, but he immediately knows what it means: it’s time to be quiet. He kissed him back, his lips a terribly familiar sensation by now, and he felt Tarkin’s lips slowly go down to his jaw, and then his chest, until it eventually reached his inner thigh, peppering his body with kisses, sucking and nibbling on his exposed skin. Krennic moaned, a low, deep sound, desperately trying to reach for him with his hands, finding his hair, and he gripped it, impatiently pulling the other man closer to his swollen cock. Tarkin tried to get out of his grip, but Krennic didn’t let him go.

“Impatient little bird,” he grunted, licking the inside of Krennic’s thigh. “I could order you to stop.”

“But you wouldn’t,” Krennic sighed, throwing his head back on the pillow. “You’re enjoying this.”

The other man responded with a muffled grunt, and Krennic smiled, slightly, but it didn’t last long—Tarkin’s lips found the head of his cock, and he started sucking it, first lightly, slowly. 

“Fuck,” Krennic swore, writhing underneath him, his grasp on the other man’s hair slipping. Tarkin pinned him to the bed by his hips, but the sensation of his hands on his naked skin is now secondary, as the other man started to suck his erect cock, licking his precome, his teeth an exquisite sensation when he chose to use it. “Fuck it, Tarkin. You’re fucking good at this, and I hate you.”

He realised that he means it, but he couldn’t think anymore, not when he was brought closer to the brink with the other man pleasuring him with his mouth, the blindfold enhancing the sensation, making him even more sensitive to his touch. “Please,” Krennic begged, cheeks flushing. “Please…don’t stop. Suck me harder. Make me come. I want to come in your mouth. Please, Sire.”

Tarkin stopped for a moment, and Krennic felt the loss acutely, as he always did whenever they were thick in the midst of it and he stopped, however momentarily. “You’re one dirty, willful little bird,” he said, and Krennic could imagine his eyes flashing with annoyance, but he doesn’t care anymore. Nothing matters, not any longer, just his touch and his mouth on his cock, and him, him, _him_. It was all-consuming, humiliating, degrading, but Krennic couldn’t find it in him to care. “You think you’re going to have it your way? You _always_ think that,” Tarkin said, taunting him. “But you’re wrong, Krennic.”

He parted his lips to speak, but whatever Krennic was going to say was quickly forgotten, as Tarkin’s mouth found his cock again, and soon enough, he was begging him loudly, begging to come, and the other man brought him closer and closer to the brink. 

“I- I can’t,” Krennic whimpered, shifting uncomfortably. “I’m going to come. Fuck, I- I’m going to come,” he managed to muster before he came, hot and thick, but he felt Tarkin pulled away first, cupping his cock when he came, letting Krennic come, once more, on his hands instead in his mouth. Krennic felt the familiar blankness washing over him, the relief, and the pleasant relaxing that descended upon his limbs, and he lay back, satisfied.

“Take off your blindfold,” the other man ordered, and Krennic immediately did just that. “While I’d love to let you come in my mouth,” Tarkin said, licking his cum off his hands, an arousing view, “you haven’t earned it. Yet. And besides, I am your master, pup, it would be improper if I swallowed your cum.”

“But you like the taste of it,” Krennic observed, lazily, watching Tarkin lick his fingers clean. 

“I like the taste of you,” he retorted, smiling, all but baring his teeth. “So long as you are mine.”

“Not for much longer,” Krennic told him, feeling Tarkin’s lips on his, the heat of his mouth both familiar and inviting. “I promise you.”

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not on Tumblr anymore (I deleted mine bc of reasons), so hmu on Twitter instead: @deathstartemp. Thank you for reading! As always, comments & suggestions are welcome xxxx


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thrawn has his own agenda, and Eli asked for Krennic's help. Krennic thinks that Thrawn could be his way out of this mess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be no smut in this chapter (sorry lol), just...intrigue, drama, and some kissing. Also, if you're waiting for Thranto and/or Thrawnnic, here it is. Trigger warning for a mention of a very dubious consent act.
> 
> Anyway, happy early Halloween and enjoy!

There are too many shadows in this place, too many secret corners and winding, ominous corridors to Eli’s liking, and once, he thought he saw something dark with too many legs than it was physically possible skittering around a corner, but he quickly denied it and filed it under his overactive imagination. After all, the palace—more like a mansion, a very haunted and old one at that—did have that sort of effect. It was nothing like the elegant straightforward hallways of the Chiss, with faint blue faerie light illuminating his way, and the grand skylight of the grand ballroom, the constellations always shifting and changing. He’d heard that the Seelie had an even grander ballroom where they liked to throw parties when it's Summer in the human world, and a labyrinth with a fountain of youth in the midst of it, but the Chiss’ home, with their mathematical precision and orderly magic, had felt more like a home to Eli than the pigsty in which he was born.

For Eli was human, and he had stayed in Faerie for far too long.

Sometimes he thought of his parents, thought of his mother sitting at the dinner table with his father and younger sister, an empty chair across them, thinking that he had died, or worse, spirited away by the fae. And the sad truth is, the latter was actually true. Eli met Thrawn a couple of years back, when he was a teenager, and it never occurred to him that he was a fae, until he showed his true form.

Ever since then, Thrawn—his teacher, protector, and most importantly, _friend_ —had taught him a lot of things about the Fair Folk, including the magic that enables them to move freely in the human world: Glamour. 

When someone finally opened the door, Eli rose from his seat, unable to contain his worry. The meeting had gone on far too long for his liking, especially considering the King of Winter’s reputation. “How was it?” he asked, already fretting even if he doesn’t want to show the other how worried he is. “Where have you been, Thrawn? Was the meeting okay? Did it go well? What did he say?”

Thrawn, as always, entered the room—his guest quarters, where he asked Eli to wait for him, and Eli had been here for nearly an hour, although it’s hard to tell, time being a strange mythical creature in Faerie—calmly, closing the door behind him and taking off his outer robe. Then he sat himself down on his bed—facing Eli—and only then he began talking. This doesn’t help with Eli’s anxiety at all.

“Calm yourself, Vanto. The King was bound by the laws of hospitality, such as the one that you humans also observed. He did not hurt me,” Thrawn said, more to Eli’s benefit than to himself, and it disturbs Eli how well he knows him. “It went about as well as I expected.”

“Which is to say, I assume,” Eli said, dryly, shifting in his seat. “Not well at all?”

“Not at all,” Thrawn said, evenly. “It went as I expected. He said that perhaps it’s time for the Chiss to face extinction, since clearly, we are not fit to survive anymore.”

Eli clenched his fist, feeling anger rise within him. “How dare he says that? Wasn’t that against the protocols of diplomacy?”

“No,” Thrawn told him, swiftly. “It was the truth. The King was only telling the truth. A rare thing, for a Unseelie.” he paused briefly, and Eli felt awkward, as he sometimes did, in close quarters with Thrawn, even if they had known each other better than their own selves. And sometimes, Eli fantasised, sometimes…well, he doesn’t want to finish the thought. “Will you pour me a drink, Vanto? The one we carried from back home, not the one provided to us. I don’t trust Unseelie wine.”

Eli had to laugh at that. “Seems like you don’t trust them either.”

“I don’t,” Thrawn merely said. “Especially after what I’ve seen tonight.”

Eli did as he was told, reaching for the wine on the small desk beside Thrawn’s bed than the one on the table, taking the glass, however, from the table, and poured the liquid into it. Then he extended it to Thrawn, smiling slightly as he did so.

“Thank you, Vanto,” Thrawn said, his cool fingers lightly brushing Eli’s, and he felt heat rising to his cheeks. There was a brief pause as Eli settles back down on his seat, and Thrawn sipped his wine, unwinding himself. “You do not have to worry,” he suddenly said, breaking the silence, as if reading Eli’s mind. “I have a backup plan.”

“How?” Eli prompted before he could stop himself. 

“I met an old friend today,” Thrawn told him, as calm and as unreadable as a starless night. “Let’s just say that he’s… _displeased_ with how the King is treating him. And he is,” Thrawn’s eyes gleamed, two burning suns on its zenith. “shall I say, _close_ to the King.”

Eli was taken by surprise, and it must have shown on his face, from the way Thrawn is looking at him. “What is my part in this?” he dutifully asked. As Thrawn’s official aide, it was his task to assist and aid him whenever necessary, and as the other half of the delegation, it was his duty to help Thrawn get what he and the Chiss came for. And as his friend…well…Eli had to be on the lookout for him.

“Do some research in the library,” Thrawn said, swirling the liquid in his glass. “I want to know if there’s anything we can use against him. And…” he trailed off a little, but the gleam in his eyes was back, and he was looking at Eli intensely. “I want to know if any of the rumours about him are true, Vanto.”

“I will,” Eli nodded, forever the dutiful aide. “Are you certain I will be granted access to the library?”

“Of course,” Thrawn said, taking a gulp of his wine. “I will ensure that. In the meanwhile, I will meet my old friend.”

Eli can’t help but feel a little—just a little, a tiny razorblade sensation—pang of jealousy at Thrawn’s mention of the old friend. He absently wondered who he is—who _they_ are—and why Thrawn looked the way he is when he spoke about them, gaze softening, red eyes distant. Eli felt abandoned, but only for a moment, as if Thrawn is going away, somewhere that he couldn’t follow. He knows that their friendship wouldn’t last forever, not when he was human and Thrawn was more or less immortal, and that there are places his friend and teacher had gone that he cannot follow, but this is…different. Eli swallowed his longing, and forced himself to be in the present.

“Be careful, Thrawn,” he said, as one friend to another. Thrawn held his gaze.

“I am more worried about you, Vanto,” Thrawn said, and Eli knows that it was the truth. Fae can’t tell lies. “Be careful. Don’t let them find about…about who you are. And what you know.”

Eli nodded, wanting to reach out to Thrawn, to hold his hand, but didn’t. Instead, he stood up and dusted himself, readying himself to leave to his own adjacent quarters. “I will. Good evening, my lord Thrawn.”

“And you, too,” Thrawn murmured in response, and Eli felt his gaze on him as he exited the room. "Eli Vanto."

Tomorrow, he thought, banishing all thoughts of Thrawn from his mind, the library.

* * *

“Thank you for meeting me,” Thrawn said, feeling more than a little stiff, looking at the man already seated—lounging—in the chair near the wide window of the library, the only one with a lot of sunlight streaming inside, striations of it framing him in a sort of a faux halo. There is poetry in it, a sort of art, but Thrawn restrained himself. “I apologise it was on such a short notice, my lord.”

“Let’s dispense with the pleasantries,” the other man said, smiling broadly. In the sunlight—and it was a strangely sunny day in the palace today—his eyes were rendered more vivid, bluer, like the sky above his Court. “We _do_ know each other, don’t we…Thrawn?”

Thrawn sighed, holding his gaze, seeing the past in there, threads of it unspooling like ghosts, like mathematical equations, like incomprehensible magical threads. “Yes. But that was quite a long time ago, Orson.”

He noticed that the rigidity that the other fae displayed briefly, at the mention of his forename, too close to his true name. Not many people know about it, just like not many people know Thrawn’s full name. A Chiss’ true name is nigh incomprehensible, which is why their magic was so powerful and primordial. Even their full names are unpronounceable for the most part, and that was another advantage they have. But now they are nearing their end. 

Krennic’s gaze softens, briefly, before it hardened. The Chiss momentarily wondered what was truly going on in his mind, what emotions and thoughts conspired to form the soft but brief look that he displayed for the merest of a second. “Please don’t call me that here. Someone might overhear.”

“Like how someone might overhear our conversation?” Thrawn shot back, not caring that it might inflame Krennic’s famous hair-trigger temper. The other fae narrowed his eyes at him, a threat, but he thinks it only serves to lend him a certain sort of realness, a kind of anchoring. Krennic’s kind was famous for being ethereally, impossibly beautiful, but Thrawn likes his old friend better when he was annoyed, when something—or someone—gets on his nerves. He will never tell Krennic this, but he thought it brought out the other man’s human half. 

And Thrawn, despite how forbidden and looked down upon it is, despite who he is, was quite fond of humans.

“Yes and no,” Krennic finally said, looking away, sighing. “I’m a little lacking in magic right now, but I’ve made sure that there are no little Unseelie pixies flitting around, hiding, reporting every word that we said back to the King.”

Thrawn wanted to ask _why_ , but discovered that his tongue was rather tied. “I see,” he said, instead, still standing there, still looking at him like he was a wild animal, a butterfly, something that would run away at the slightest shocking movement, rather than a real man, sitting in front of him. He closed his eyes, momentarily, extending his senses, forgetting everything but the invisible threads around them, the incomprehensible parallel lines. “Your magic is true, at least. You are talented, as always, Orson.”

“Not so much so anymore,” Krennic said, gesturing at him to sit down. “Sit. I think we have a lot to talk about.”

“Yes,” Thrawn said, taking the seat across from him. Krennic has been prepared. There is wine on the table, and some light snack, not to mention a book—Thrawn’s eyes veered off for a second to read the title—but it was plain that the latter was just for show. As always, his old friend knows how to deceive others. If anyone stumbles upon them, it would look as if they ran into each other by accident, and that Krennic has been reading alone in the library. “And we’re long overdue,” he told him, after he had settled down in his seat, his tone softening before he could moderate it. Try as he might, he had always been fond of his old Seelie friend. He was fond of his aide, too, but it was of a different kind.

“How are you?” Krennic started, pouring himself a drink with a flick of a hand and then started sipping his wine. It lasted shorter than the way his tone softened earlier at the sound of his forename in Thrawn’s tongue, but Thrawn did notice the way he recoiled after the act, as if the simple magic of it hurts him in some way. He pretended not to notice, however, always the name of his game.

“I’m doing fine,” Thrawn said, feeling himself relaxing slightly, although he still held himself in a straight posture. “As fine as one can be, however, considering one’s sudden status and responsibility as ambassador.”

Krennic laughed, and the Chiss was glad for it. It was a sound Thrawn had missed and yet, he did not realise how much he missed it until he heard it again, now after all these years—decades—between them, although he won’t admit it yet. Krennic poured him a drink, as well, but Thrawn didn’t touch it. Not yet. “I’ve expected that from you. I have to admit, I was…more than a little surprised, seeing you in Tarkin’s study. I always know politics wasn’t your strongest suit, and you despised inter-Court politics.”

“Not so loud, Orson,” Thrawn chided him, but smiled, slightly. “I am, after all, the leader of my delegation. It wouldn’t do if you besmirched my name and capabilities so early.”

“I’m not,” Krennic said in return, smirking. “I’m just saying. You’re more suited for other things. Remember who taught you about inner Court politics, and it’s not even your Court.”

“I remember,” Thrawn said, unable to keep the fondness nor the nostalgia out of his voice. “I was still young when I visited your Court.”

“So am I,” Krennic said, looking straight into Thrawn’s eyes. “I was newly minted when you came to visit with your brother. You were so…” he cocked his head, as he always did when he was deep in thought, looking at him but at the same time _past_ him, piercing the veil of time. Thrawn has always been the one reading others like an open book, but this time he felt as if _he_ was the open book, and Orson was rifling through his pages, trying to find the right word. He ducked his head, embarrassed, trying to hide it by sipping the wine Orson had poured for him. “Innocent.” Krennic finally discovered the word, grinning. “ _I_ was the newly minted fae noble, but you acted as if everything was new to you. As if everything was _foreign_ to you, Thrawn.”

Thrawn had the grace to blush a deep purple, and this time he could barely hide it from Orson. “In my defence…the Summer Court has different ways of doing things.”

“But are we not descended from yours?” he said, holding his half-emptied glass, still framed by the winter sunlight like an angel trapped in particles of light. “I remember your brother made a point to stress that the Chiss were here first, before us, before the humans…before everything we know,” Krennic swirled the light liquid, sipping it slowly, casually. “Multiple times, even.”

“I apologised for my brother,” Thrawn told him, stoically. He has managed to get rid of the blush for the time being, but he doesn’t know how much longer it will last. It is hard being in Orson’s presence—there is something about him that undoubtedly pulled him in, beyond more than just aesthetics or physical look, and Thrawn had to exercise his self-control to the fullest. “He can be…very proud at times. Patriotic, the humans would say.”

Orson leaned forward, wine glass in one hand, propping the other under his chin, crossing one leg over the other. It was an intimate gesture, one that spoke of trust and _interest_ , and Thrawn wondered what it is that he said that had interested him so. “If I remembered correctly,” Krennic started, and there’s a hint of carefulness in his tone now, as if he was treading on thin ice. “You don’t have a very high opinion of humans, the last time we met.”

“Things change,” Thrawn blurted out, compelled by the cursed truthfulness that even the Chiss wasn’t free from. “I met someone. He was…very important to me.”

Krennic leaned back, uncrossing his leg. His blue eyes were suddenly hooded, guarded. “I see,” he said, simply. Thrawn hoped that he did not press the matter further. “Then you understand now how I feel.”

Their gazes met, red and blue, Orson’s gaze still guarded, unreadable, unreachable. Thrawn simply nods. Silence descended between them, and something passed unseen between them, something incomprehensible and enigmatic. And, throughout it all, a name, hanging between them, like a sword hanging on a pendulum, waiting to fall.

Thrawn asked first. “What about Tarkin?”

“What about _him_?” Krennic shot back, defensive, and Thrawn noticed a glimmer of pure loathing in his eyes. 

“You ended up with him,” Thrawn said, phrasing it carefully. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to know the truth yet. And for that matter, Thrawn wasn’t sure of Orson’s feelings towards him, yet. He wanted to say what he had observed yesterday: that there was no love lost there between Tarkin and Orson, but he knows that it’s better to be quiet and wait for Orson to tell him the truth, in whatever form.

“Yes,” Orson said, took a large gulp of his wine. “Not my choice. As he said, we had an arrangement. Not entirely to my benefit. Not at all, in fact.”

Thrawn processed this information briefly, crossing his arms on his chest, thinking. When he spoke, he chose his words with great care. “But it benefited him, of course.”

“Of course,” the other man said, nodding in agreement, leaning back, and for a moment, Thrawn saw the glint of the silver collar around his throat, and he wondered if it was intentional—and what it means. “He always knows how to twist bargains to his benefit. Trust me on this, Thrawn, as an old friend if not someone you trust: don’t let him dictate the terms. It has to be on your own terms. Refuse his terms, if you can.”

That was a lot to stomach for an ordinary fae, but Thrawn was no ordinary fae. It was his turn to nod, and drank his wine. “I see. I will keep that in mind,” he paused, briefly, hoping his next words wouldn’t come out as awkward. “Thank you for the tip…Orson.”

Orson nodded, smiled his ravishing smile, satisfied. “You owe me one, of course. But we can talk about that a bit later. Right now, why don’t we just talk? It’s been a while.”

His smile was impossible to resist, impish and charming all at once, and there was art in it, too. The wine was good, making him feel a just a little light-headed, and the sunlight was just perfect, the rest of the library empty. Thrawn knows that this is a bad decision—he could almost hear the voice of his brother Thrass chiding him in his head—but he nodded anyway, and Orson poured him more wine. 

“Now tell me about you,” Orson said, almost purring, although Thrawn might be imagining it. “What’s going on? Let’s catch up, while we had the chance.”

In the end, Thrawn had to admit that it was a good conversation—his old friend was indeed a good conversationalist when he wanted to be—and he thought Orson might be flirting with him a couple of times, but he might be seeing things. After all, he rationalised, back then he belonged to the human man, the one who had the Sight, and now, he belonged to the second most powerful fae there is, the King of the Unseelie. He certainly didn’t want to assume things.

And if he’s not seeing things…he still doesn’t quite know how to reconcile it, with his true mission, although he knows that Orson would perhaps be willing to help him out—and Thrawn knows he’s in a place to help him—and now, he owed him. His brother taught him that members of the Summer Court are fickle creatures, calling on their favours when it was least expected and sometimes when the person who owed them are least able to fulfill it, but Thrawn certainly hoped that their old friendship at least means something, to Orson.

And his aide…well, in another word, Thrawn could only hope.

* * *

Later, Eli was in the library, searching for proof.

There are a lot of rumours about the King of the Unseelie: that he had made a deal with the Devil himself, that the Devil was his close friend and trusted companion, that he knows the true secret to immortality, that an unknown being of eldritch and incomprehensible power helped him kept his throne and position…Eli thought that a lot of those must be a load of pig shit, but Thrawn had asked him to search for the truth, and what Thrawn asked, he did without question.

_You are the only one I can trust, Vanto_ , he remembered Thrawn telling him, back when Thrawn had just beginning to take him under his wing. He remembered, too, the day they met, the autumn sky a gloom, the sunset an open wound, bleeding over the horizon, and he was herding his parents’ sheep back home.

That was a long time ago. Time passes differently in Faerie, but Eli Vanto kept track of his age. Next year he would be 22, and it would be five years ever since he met Thrawn and his life was—had—changed forevermore. Unlike most people who had gotten into Faerie—trapped inside it—Eli remained there by choice, and despite the possible unwiseness of this act, he kept track of his past, too, because it anchored him. He still thinks of his mother and father and his little sister every day—only ten when he first met Thrawn—and he wondered if they knew, would they condemn his decision? Would they doubt his choice?

He only knew that he was here because of Thrawn.

Eli’s foraging for old tomes was only interrupted by the arrival of someone else—Eli could sense him, Thrawn had taught him how—and he quickly grabbed one and pretended to flip through it absentmindedly, like he knows what he’s doing. There was a moment of quiet, the quiet before the storm arrives, and then the sound of footsteps comes closer, finally halting at the end of the bookshelf corridor he was in. Eli looked up—looked at the newcomer—more of an instinct than any conscious thought, and something, _something_ forced him to look. 

The newly arriving man was a fae, that’s for sure, and another one of the nobility that filled the palace— _filled_ being a relative word, since the King of Unseelie does not like being disturbed—because only a high-ranking Fae Lord has such a _presence_ and a humanoid countenance. Eli also had to admit that he was unnaturally beautiful, and in a different way than the ethereal, barely-human Chiss, or what few of the Unseelie nobility that he had seen, who sometimes had claws and wings and other inhuman features, often both.

_This_ one looked perfectly human, but at the same time, if he walked down the street of Eli’s village, Eli was sure all the girls—and perhaps some boys—in it would immediately die, out of outright desire if not just by looking at him. Suddenly, he felt naked, and he hoped that his glamour holds.

“I didn’t realise there was somebody else here in the library,” the fae said, innocently. In contrast to his looks—and his startlingly blue eyes—his voice had a raspy quality to it, not perfectly smooth. “Usually, it was only me.”

“I’m sorry,” Eli managed to muster, after he forcibly dragged out his words from hiding, avoiding the other man’s gaze. “I did have access to this library. I was told as much.”

“And who might you be?” he asked, tilting his head. Eli would have said that there is a condescending undertone to his question, but he was used to fae nobility by now, having forced to endure them by Thrawn’s side.

“I’m…the Ambassador’s aide,” he said, knowing that giving names to an errant faerie is a bad idea. “He had permission from the King to access his library.”

“Interesting,” the other man said, looking directly into Eli’s eyes. Eli was glad for his glamour, for there was something mesmerising about the man’s gaze, and it was as bright as a midday sky. “I’ve heard about you from the Ambassador,” he added, smiling slightly. 

Eli felt his heart rate picked up. Thrawn has told this man about him? He tried to think back to what Thrawn has said to him, tried to find clues, or something about this man. He only knows that Thrawn had an old friend. Could this man be his old friend? Eli proceeded cautiously.

“Of course, I am after all his aide and part of the Chiss delegation,” Eli said, treading carefully. Despite his physical beauty, despite his honeyed words, despite the smile and the vivid summer blue eyes, there was something lethal about the other man, something ruthless and mercurial. He couldn’t yet place this fae, either, and that, to Eli, automatically means a threat. He wants to make sense of things. “But I didn’t see you at the welcome dinner, nor in the Court,”

It was a bold move, and the latter was just a guess, since Thrawn barred him from attending any of the King’s other invitations. Something crossed the fae’s expression—something dark—and he sauntered closer, still casual, but there’s a danger about him now, a caged animal pacing inside his cage. Eli almost took a step back, but held his ground, lifting his chin and holding the other’s gaze.

“You’re not Chiss,” he said, softly. “So which Court are you from?”

“My mother was a selkie with the Autumn Court,” Eli said, cursing himself mentally when he automatically avoided the Fae Lord’s gaze, knowing full well by now that fae can detect lies as much as they cannot afford to tell anything but the truth. “My father was a fisherman,” he added, a lie that he had constructed as much as the one Thrawn had helped built for him. Of course, there is a truth in there, so twisted and mangled it was unrecognisable. Eli’s father, in truth, was a shepherd. But it was of course more plausible to say that he was a fisherman, in context of the lie. 

The other man narrowed his eyes at him, studying him. “You’re lying,” he said, as smooth as his movements. “I don’t know how you do it, but you’re lying,” he added, his gaze intense, and Eli felt compelled to avoid it. He didn’t. “I’m a half-fae,” the blue-eyed man said, to Eli’s abject surprise. “I would have known. So-“ he steps closer, to the darkness between the bookshelves, but his eyes were still as bright as ever. “Who are you, really?”

“A secret for a secret,” Eli quickly told him, the only thing that came to mind. It was more than a fae proverb because that’s how they do it in Faerie: secrets were currencies, and lies were an impossibility. “I don’t even know who you are, yet.”

“I’ve told you my secret,” the other man countered, quickly, irritated. Eli could sense that he had a quick temper, as temperamental as he is beautiful. “I’m the Lord Krennic, the King’s consort. Now it’s your turn to tell me _your_ secret.”

_The King’s consort_. Eli almost asked which King, but he understood, immediately. He considered his words carefully. “What guarantee can you offer me that you will keep my secret, my lord? I need a guarantee before I could tell you my secret.”

Krennic looked equal parts annoyed and surprised, and Eli was glad. This time, he had managed to outsmart him. “My word, of course. I could guarantee you that.”

_And you would turn on me as soon as you find the right buyer for my secret_ , Eli thought, automatically, but held his tongue. It is generally not advisable to pick a fight with a Fae Lord, Thrawn has taught him, especially if you cannot yet place in which Court he belongs. Thrawn did not say anything about what to do if the Fae Lord was his old friend, but Eli knows for certain that Krennic was not Unseelie. He, at least, had spent enough time learning about the fae under Thrawn’s tutelage to be able to distinguish them.

“A good guarantee, my lord,” Eli demurred, stalling. “But I need something more than that. You said you were Thrawn’s old friend.”

“Yes,” Krennic answered, sounding bored now. “I am. You can ask him soon as you meet him, if you don’t believe me.”

Eli, once more, treaded very carefully, choosing his words with care. “Pardon me if I’m wrong, but you do not seem to belong here, my lord.”

“As much as _you_ don’t belong,” Krennic jabbed, and Eli winced, feeling him sniffing at him metaphorically, testing his glamour with his magic. He was powerful, Eli thought, almost as powerful as Thrawn. “But yes, your assessment is correct. I belong to the Summer Court. I am the Queen’s right hand.”

A King’s consort, and a Queen’s right hand. Eli wondered how he came to hold both positions simultaneously, and why is he in Tarkin’s Court. But he kept his questions prudently to himself, knowing that there is a bigger fish to fry here. “I am sorry I ever doubted you, my lord,” he said, out of both necessity and courtesy, giving him a slight bow. “It is not every day you see a Seelie. Especially in the Winter Court.”

Krennic gave him a pointed look. More and more, Eli thought that he was stepping on the wrong foot. It was as if they were dancing—like when _he_ was dancing during the Midsummer festival in his village, the one time his mother forced him to because he had come of age—and he kept stepping on Krennic’s foot. Eli could particularly sense the profound annoyance radiating from the fae.

“I had an arrangement with the King,” he said, once more sounding bored, but this time it was as if he was forced to explain it for the thousandth time instead of bored because he was talking to someone beneath his station. “Now, I don’t have all day, so why don’t you tell me who you really are, little liar? I promise I’ll keep your secret a secret.”

Eli flushed at that, more at the insinuation that he was a liar than of anger—although he did lie, and it was a practised lie at that—despite the slow burn of hot fire in his belly. He shouldn’t let this man treat him this way, and if Thrawn was here…if Thrawn was here…

He would probably side with his old friend, of course. Eli could already see that they are alike, despite their vastly differing temperaments, but he could not yet see why Thrawn took a liking at Krennic. Eli was an outsider, and he couldn’t forget that. He bit his tongue, glanced at the other man nervously. He looked no older than thirty, like Thrawn, but Eli knew that in reality, he would be much older than that. Fae was as deceptive as they look.

“What’s wrong?” Krennic said, stalking closer. Eli took a step backwards. “Cat got your tongue? There are laws against lying to a Fae Lord, you know. Even in the Unseelie Court.”

“I’m human,” Eli blurted out, immediately regretting it afterwards. Surprisingly, or perhaps unsurprisingly, it gave Krennic a pause, and he stopped dead in his tracks. “I’m not half-fae, or a fae. I’m completely human.”

Krennic looked him up and down, looked at him for askance. Eli could sense that he was prodding him with his magic too, subtly, although there was something faint about his magic, as if it was restrained in some way. Fae magic was supposedly raw and merciless, and even more so with members of the Summer Court. It has something to do with their season, the season of pleasure and things prospering without a care in the world, where the sun beats down its light mercilessly from the sky, and the heat is unavoidable. Eli briefly wondered why.

Krennic clearly didn’t believe him. He crossed his arms on his chest. “Then how come you can Glamour yourself? Humans don’t have magic in them, not fae magic at least, and half-faes who aren’t granted full membership of the Court doesn’t have that much, either. I don’t think you quite answer my question on who you are just yet.”

“Well, if you’re so close to Thrawn, you could just ask him,” Eli blurted out, sarcastically, his own temper rising. “You told me he told you about me. Did he tell you that he taught me magic, too? Now you know my secret.”

Krennic looked very much surprised. There was a pause as he processed that information, and Eli gave him that. In the meanwhile, he tried to think of an escape plan, in case things get nasty. After all, he didn’t trust Krennic all that much, if at all.

“I talked to him earlier,” Krennic said, not looking at him. Eli could feel his magic again now, prodding him, and he let him. He was confident of his Glamour ability. “I believe you,” he added, abruptly. Then another pause, a more awkward one, and Eli pretended to look back at the tome he was holding—it was fairly heavy, he had cast a spell to hold it afloat, therefore he’s not really “holding” it—like it had something he was looking for. “Thrawn was worried about something,” Krennic continued. Eli didn’t look at him, but he knows the fae was narrowing his eyes at him. “And I suspect it has something to do with you.”

It was Eli’s turn to be surprised, but he was better at hiding it than Krennic does. “I wouldn’t know anything about that,” he told him, still pretending that he was reading the tome. It contains spells to make humans’ sheep infertile and so on and such, and Eli almost rolled his eyes. It was only his luck that he stumbled upon a tome about spells for _sheep_. “Thrawn’s here on an official mission. His brother Thrass—sworn leader of the Chiss Ascendancy—sent him in his place, because he had his own business to take care of. He’s here with the blessings of the Lady Ar’alani, Thrass’ Queen and Champion of the Ascendancy. Although,” Eli added, an afterthought to himself more than anything. “He had been acting quite strange lately…”

“Like what?” Krennic asked, and then Eli remembered that he was there. Eli nearly scowled at him, but composed himself. Thrawn had taught him well in terms of decorum, too. 

“None of your business,” Eli said, all too sharply, and Krennic, once more, narrowed his eyes at him. But then he remembered something— “But if you’re his old friend,” Eli added, not really caring about decorum at this point. “You could probably find out. He said…he said he could probably trust you,” Eli looked at Krennic, whose eyes now widened slightly by surprise. “Don’t betray his trust.”

There was a pause, and Krennic composed himself, although Eli could see how profound his surprise is, and there was something else, an emotion that quickens Eli’s heart. _Jealousy_. He was jealous of this fae, of this man, who knows Thrawn before he does, and who would still know him, long after Eli had died. The unfairness of the world. Eli felt his own hand clenched into a fist.

“I won’t,” Krennic answered, softly, too soft for a fae like him, and for a moment, all the menace and ruthlessness was drained out of him. He could have been human at that moment—vulnerable, young, the soft thing in his half-human heart laid bare for Eli’s eyes to see. Eli averted his gaze. 

“I want to make a bargain with you,” Eli told him, suddenly, closing the tome and returned it to the shelf. 

“You will regret it,” Krennic said, tilting his head. “Tell me what you want to bargain for, little human boy, and what price you’re willing to pay for it.”

“I will not,” Eli said, resolutely, holding his gaze. “Promise me you’ll protect Thrawn to the best of your abilities while he’s here. As a payment, I will…give you all the information I’ve discovered about the King of the Unseelie. Only the _true_ ones. Is that good enough for you?”

“Good,” Krennic said, and if he was surprised again, this time he hid it well. “But what need would I have of your information? I can gather it myself. I’m his _consort_ ,” he said, almost haughtily, although Eli could detect a hint of loathing in it. “I can persuade him myself to tell me his secrets.”

“You won’t be able to,” Eli insisted, stubbornly. “There are some things that he doesn’t tell anyone. That’s why I’m here. Thrawn sent me to investigate the rumours.”

Another pause, and Krennic uncrossed his arms. He ran a finger through his light brown hair. “So you and Thrawn, too, heard the rumours.”

“We did. Thrawn wouldn’t discount them as mere fairy tales, though some of them did sound a bit ridiculous,” Eli said, smiling wryly, remembering him arguing with Thrawn about it back in the Ascendancy, in Thrawn’s own solar. “But he told me that there could be truth in some of the rumours, and he brought me with him to find out.”

“Then I will help you the way I can,” Krennic said, and once more, Eli was unable to contain his surprise. “Consider it charity from my part, because as you can see, I don’t like the… _arrangement_ I’m in. And I will,” he added, steel in his blue eyes. “Protect Thrawn to the best of my abilities, as you asked. In return, you will give me the truth about Tarkin.”

“Deal.” Eli said, quicker than he anticipated. “Should we seal it?”

Krennic smiled, rakish and charming and infuriating all at once. Eli can’t help but feel attracted to him. It is said that it’s impossible not to fall in love with a fae, although, Eli reminded himself, he had somebody else in mind. But probably best not to think about it too much.

“However way you wanted to, little boy,” Krennic told him, almost purring. Eli—before he knows it—moved closer, closing the distance between them, and pulled him closer by the waist, tilting his head up to kiss him. He was aiming for Krennic’s cheek, but, silly boy that he was—he told himself that—he ended up kissing the other man’s lips instead. To his surprise, Krennic opened his mouth and returned his kiss, wrapping his own arms around him. It lasted barely for a heartbeat, but Eli still felt the heat from his mouth after that.

“Surprising,” Krennic said, dryly, pulling away. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d choose to seal it that way. You could simply shake my hand, you know.”

Eli blushed, at a loss for words. “I- I- It would be stronger that way,” he reasoned, lamely, avoiding Krennic’s gaze.

“Still,” Krennic said, amusement evident in his voice. “We had a deal. Keep your end of the bargain, and I’ll keep mine.”

“We had a deal,” Eli echoed. “And I will.”

After they part ways, he wondered if he had just made a deal with the Devil—or was totally out of his depth. Eli can only hope that it wasn’t the case.

* * *

Krennic doesn’t have to wait long for this chance. He knows how to pull strings—it was what he did best—and he did pull some strings that evening, thus allowing himself the privilege of having Tarkin’s study all to his own, while the owner was occupied with what he’d organised. It was a completely useless meeting with Pryce and Ozzel, but Krennic had impressed it upon them—subtly—that it was very important, especially that they bring it up to the King, and considering the history of petty rivalry between them, Krennic hoped that the meeting would last long enough.

Well, long enough for him to gain useful information that could help Thrawn’s aide, at least. Either that, or just some dirt in general. He knows by now that the throne room is useless—it’s completely ceremonial—the library had some hidden nooks, but it’s usually for alcohol and some toys, the ballroom is just as ceremonial, not to mention he’d be completely exposed in there, and the solar has nothing. Tarkin’s private bedchamber—Krennic curled his lip down in distaste at some of the memories that they had there—nothing there too since it was barely used, mostly now for Tarkin’s “sessions” with him. It wasn’t somewhere that he wanted to go to alone, especially when he doesn’t have to, and besides, he’d swooped every hidden—and obvious—nook and cranny there during the times when Tarkin ordered him to wait there. It was charted territory.

The study, however, was uncharted.

The easy part was sneaking out of his bedchambers—a gilded cage, really—and making his way to the study. The hardest part was finding out what he wanted to find.

Thus, it was with the utmost surprise when Krennic felt another’s presence—he’d run magical checks throughout the room beforehand, disabling whatever magical traps and snares that he can, making sure that it’s safe for the night—coming his way, to the study, and he cursed under his breath. Tarkin wasn’t supposed to return this early. His estimation had been wrong. He frantically thinks to think of something, anything, an excuse, or perhaps somewhere to hide, although that would be useless, considering the fact that the other fae could sense his presence. Then the person knocks, and Krennic cursed again under his breath. Of course, it couldn’t be Tarkin, the owner of the study, if he knocks, but that means it was someone else, someone who’s coming to visit him tonight.

The visitor knocks once, twice, thrice, and then silence. And then—Krennic extends his sense a little too late—the visitor unlocks the door, magically. The subtlety of it, and especially the signature of it was familiar. 

Krennic holds his breath when Thrawn stepped into the room, his footsteps muffled by a silencing spell. Unlike the other day, he was dressed in black, with gold accents, and it brought out the colour of his skin. His glowing red eyes were piercing, surprised, when it found Krennic’s.

“I wouldn’t think I’d find you here,” he broke the silence first, his tone modulated, his voice cultured, perfectly devoid of the surprise that subtly graced his expression scarcely a moment earlier. “I do apologise if I am interrupting anything. My lord.”

“Thrawn,” Krennic managed to muster, closing the hidden drawer that he was checking with one hand behind his back. “No, you’re not interrupting anything. In fact-“ he glanced at him, and then at the closed door behind him. “I shouldn’t be here.” he smiled, a little, wryly, knowing that the other man would understand.

And he did. Thrawn returned his smile with one of his own, eyes flitting from Krennic to the rest of the room to Krennic’s hand behind his back. “I shouldn’t be here either,” he said, taking a step closer. “I would have thought that he kept you on a shorter leash.”

“He did,” Krennic said, plopping himself on Tarkin’s high-backed chair, lifting his chin defiantly. “But should I say…I _arranged_ a little something for him. And I slipped out of my room.”

“Always the rebellious one,” Thrawn commented, stepping closer to him. Krennic smiled again, leaning back, propping his legs up on the desk while casually resting his hands behind his head. “You know, Orson, your _resourcefulness_ never ceased to amaze me.”

“Never underestimate a Seelie,” Krennic said, grinning savagely. “Now, you’re here for something too…aren’t you?”

“I am,” Thrawn answered, narrowing his eyes. Krennic tilts his head, curious. “Something that could prolong the life of my aide.”

“I know _his_ secret,” Krennic quipped, and Thrawn puts both of his hands on the table, with a force that wasn’t enough to be called a display of temper but enough to capture Krennic's interest. Krennic could sense an undercurrent of hidden, yet emerging anger from the other man, perhaps partially because he’d dragged the truth out of him with a simple question, but because of something else, as well. Something he himself once had felt, and understand.

“How?” he merely said, the merest hint of a snarl underlining his expression, uncharacteristic for the calm, stoic Chiss. Krennic once more smiled, this time enigmatically, despite Thrawn’s evidently rising temper. 

“We met at the library recently,” Krennic told him. “I must say, he’s quite the pleasant young man. Talented, too. And pretty. I can see why you’ve taken a liking to him.”

It was the angriest that Krennic has ever seen him, and it was the first time that he ever saw that expression on him—the drawn back lips, barely baring his teeth, the narrowed eyes—but it doesn’t last long. The furious expression quickly disappeared, replaced with a tired one, and Thrawn let out a resigned sigh. “I suppose I cannot protect him forever. And I cannot forbid him from talking to everyone.”

“He says you’re asking him to look for the truth behind…the rumours.” Krennic said, carefully, studying the other. He doesn’t want to set him off again—and the next time might be truly lethal—because clearly he had stumbled something important for him here, something that his old friend protected fiercely, as fierce as a dragon would protect his hoard. Thrawn’s gaze on him was sharp, demanding, and Krennic swallowed, before continuing. “I promised I’d help him. But please do not ask me what he asked of me.”

Thrawn stepped closer, rounding the old desk, and Krennic gulped, nervously, not only because of what he just said—and him and his aide’s secret—but also because of the fact that he’s slowly but surely reducing the physical distance between them. They had been nothing but friends back then, and they are most certainly nothing but possible allies and old friends now, but Krennic had always sensed that Thrawn felt something more for him, something beyond the realm of friendship or personal/political alliance, and the attention he’d shown him the other day, and the manner in which he greeted him in front of Tarkin was…surprising. The King demanded Krennic to please him that night, then, and he knows that Tarkin was jealous, aware of Thrawn’s role as his potential ally and saboteur, but instead of using it as a weapon, Krennic kept the truth to himself, keeping his mouth shut and waiting for the right moment to use it against Tarkin. It had been rather unpleasant, that night, and especially rough, and he still had marks on his neck, collarbone and upper chest, and scratches on his back from where Tarkin had marked him. The man was a beast when he wanted to be.

Thrawn, on the other hand, was a very different kind of fae altogether.

“What did he asked you to do?” Thrawn said, all too softly, all too closely, and Krennic bit his tongue. He regretted saying that, but another part of him wanted Thrawn to know, another part of him… _craved_ him.

“To protect you,” he said, surprised at his own nonchalance, tilting his head to better look at Thrawn and lowering his hands. “To the best of my abilities, of course.”

“And you accepted this because…”

“He needed my help, Thrawn,” Krennic told him, a little too sharply. “I don’t know what you teach him or how long he has been living with you, but he’s still human. And he needs help. The half-fae lie won’t work forever, and the glamour might fail when his magic drained out. If someone else found out because of me…”

“Yes, Orson, I am aware of that,” Thrawn said, moving even closer, his tone low, too intimate for Krennic’s liking. And the way he said his name sent shivers down his spine, still. It was still too intimate, still too close to his true name for his liking. “But you had another reason.”

“Yes,” Krennic answered, after a brief amount of silence. He couldn’t possibly not tell the truth. “I do want to protect you. Tarkin is…” he bit his lip, looking away. “You have no idea what he’s capable of doing. And I bet at least half of the rumours are true.”

“What he did he do to you?” Thrawn asked, tilting up Krennic’s chin. His fingers felt cool and yet it was a welcome sensation, unlike Tarkin’s. 

Their gaze met, and he wanted to look away, but he didn’t, couldn’t. “Turns me into his pet,” Krennic told him, can’t help the blatant undertone of disgust sneaking into his voice. “Fitted me with a collar, a half- _iron_ one at that. It suppressed half of my magical capabilities and forced me to obey him. That’s why I’m here tonight, to find out his secrets. Aside from helping your aide.”

Thrawn takes all of this remarkably calmly, in stride, although Krennic saw his eyes flicker with anger and disdain and something else—something like concern—for half of a second. “That explains everything,” he said, simply, with a nod. “Your exchange with him that night.”

“It’s obvious,” Krennic said, wryly. “But I want to ask you something, Thrawn. I want to make a bargain with you.” Thrawn lets go of his chin, and Krennic felt a little disappointment welling up within him, a different kind of disappointment than when Tarkin pulled away midway when they were having sex. Or when he was _pleasing_ him. Both things doesn’t seem too different from the other now. “I’ll help you find a way to prolong the life your aide—in essence, immortality—in exchange for you being my ally and helping me release myself from this captivity.”

There was an urgency to his tone, and Thrawn didn’t missed it. He looked at Krennic, a little scepticism sneaking into his gaze. “What is Tarkin’s terms of your release?”

“That I outsmart him in something,” Krennic said, a gleam of determination in his blue eyes. “This is the perfect opportunity. Thrawn, you could confirm if the rumours are true—and I know one of them involves the secret to the magic of immortality—your aide could be like us, and I could be free. Think about it.”

To his surprise, Thrawn shies away, pulling back, but only for a moment. “I need time to think about it, Orson,” he said, but his gaze quickly strays back to Krennic’s, and Krennic knows that look well. “For now…I think I have something else to tell you.”

Krennic was, in all honesty, a little disappointed that Thrawn didn’t accept his offer right away, but he should have known. Thrawn was never the one to jump the gun or rush into things. He sighed, privately, but met the other fae’s gaze. “Go on ahead.”

“I think you know by now,” he said, his voice level, and Krennic wanted him to just get over it already. “I am…interested in you in more than just friends.”

Krennic put his legs down from the desk, turned to face him, resting his arm casually on the armrest, although he felt himself on edge, nervous. “Was it always been that way?” 

“No,” the other continued, his voice still level, although Krennic could detect a slight waver in his otherwise modulated voice. “I do not know precisely when it started, But back then you were still infatuated with your human boy,”

“Galen,” Krennic said, wryly, tasting the name in his mouth. It has been a while since he talked about him, much less saying his name. It tasted like ashes and remembrance. It tastes like remorse, the past, and love gone sour. “Yes. I remember. You visited my Court then. You know my secret. I trusted you.”

“You came to trust me,” Thrawn gently corrected. “As I came to trust you. I-“ for the first time, the Chiss faltered, and he looked unsure. “I don’t know what to say now.”

“Well,” Krennic said, cocking his head. “There is nothing to say.”

To his surprise, Thrawn gently tilted up his chin, once more, turning his head, and bent down to kiss him full on the lips. Krennic parted his lips for him, pulling him closer by the shoulder, and kissed him back. Thrawn’s lips was just as cool as the touch of his fingers—Chiss are by nature cooler in terms of body temperature than humans or faes of all the other Courts—and Krennic felt his craving of him grew, but before he could satiate himself, he pulled away. “We shouldn’t be doing this,” he told him, to a confused-looking Thrawn. “Tarkin will find out. Then he will not only punish me, but find a way to punish _you_ , as well. And perhaps even the entire Ascendancy.”

“I don’t care,” Thrawn said, with a flash of defiance that surprised Krennic. “Orson, I…I want you,” he added, and Krennic kissed him as soon as he said that, feeling a flash of regret welling up within him as well as dread creeping underneath his skin as soon as he did, but Thrawn kissed him back, sweetly, passionately, and it was easy to forget. It was all he ever wanted, then: his lips, his hand resting casually on his neck, the other underneath his chin. They stayed that way for a while, kissing each other, everything else forgotten. 

“We need to find what we came for,” Krennic finally said, pushing him away, catching his breath. “We’re doomed if he found us like this, but we’re even more doomed if we couldn’t find anything worthwhile while he’s occupied. He could be back any second now.”

“You’re right,” Thrawn said, pulling away, smoothing himself as if nothing had happened. “I have an idea of where to start. We could continue… _this_ …later. If you want to, of course, Orson.”

Krennic flashed him a smile. “Of course I want to. But right now we have a mission.”

“Yes,” Thrawn said, perfectly composed. “And we’re not going to go back with our hands empty.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will still try to update next week even if it's Nano week and I applied at an RP game. Rest assured, I haven't forgotten about Pandora too, I will get to it eventually. As always, thank you for reading! Comments and suggestions are always welcome <3 
> 
> follow me on Twitter: @deathstartemp / ask.fm: @directorhelix


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